STEWART 


"  I  do  wish  I  could  go,  Jess!  "     His  thin  pleasant  face  with 
its  dark  eyes  tool-  on  a  hungry  expression 


SOME  OF  US  ARE 
MARRIED 

BY 
MARY  STEWART  CUTTING 


FRONTISPIECE 

BY 
WILLIAM    CAFFREY 


DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

GARDEN   CITY      NEW   YORK  LONDON 

1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 

DOTJBLEDAY,  PAGE  *  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  1915,  BY  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1913,  1914,  1915,  1916,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  THE  McCLURE  PUBLICATIONS,  INCORPORATED 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  1917.  1919,  BY  THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  THE  PICTORIAL  REVIEW  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS 3 

AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA 34 

As  LOCHINVAR 54 

LESLIE'S  FRIEND 77 

THE  WONDER-WORKER 109 

BOGGYBRAE 133 

BENSON'S  DAY 157 

DANCE-MAD  BILLY 194 

CLYTIE  COMES  BACK 220 

THE  SHELL 244 

CHILD  OF  THE  HEART 272 

HER  JOB 291 

TWO  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  STORIES 

THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER 315 

THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  .  344 


2135020 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 

THE  UNFORESEEN 

THE  WAYFABERS 

LITTLE  STORIES  OF  COURTSHIP 

LITTLE  STORIES  OF  MARRIED  LIFE 

MORE  STORIES  OF  MARRIED  LIFE 

THE  SUBURBAN  WHIRL 

JUST  FOR  Two 

REFRACTORY  HUSBANDS 


SOME  OF  US  ARE 
MARRIED 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS 

IT  SEEMS  too  bad  that  I  can't  go  to  Aunt  Kit's 
funeral — the  very  last  member  of  the  old  family ! " 
From  the  paper  he  was  reading,  Ben  Bromley 
looked  up  yearningly  at  his  wife,  who  sat  by  the 
window  in  a  short-sleeved,  pink  gingham  frock,  shell- 
ing peas  with  expert  fingers.  It  was  ten  A.M.  on 
a  warm  Sunday;  nobody  was  going  to  church,  but  the 
two  small  boys  and  little  Alice  were  at  Sunday  school; 
the  sixteen-year-old  Top  was  upstairs  employed  ex- 
haustively in  the  sacred  rite  of  cleaning  his  gun. 
There  was  a  sense  of  peace  and  space  and  leisure. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  voice  of  Rill's  young  man 
could  be  heard  down  below  on  the  front  piazza;  the 
rhythmical  dragging  of  his  big  heavy-soled  shoes 
along  the  boards  showed  that  he  was  sprawled,  as 
usual,  in  the  hammock,  while  Rill  sat  near  it  in  the 
little  green  rocking  chair,  gazing  at  him,  happily.  It 
was  the  corner  of  the  piazza  where  Mr.  Bromley  and 
his  wife  had  been  in  the  habit  of  sitting;  but  it  was, 
of  course,  all  right  that  things  had  changed.  Every- 
thing was  all  right;  but  that  first  glow  of  excitement 
and  sympathy,  mingled  with  the  bewilderment  and 

3 


4  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

shock  of  Rill's  engagement,  had  faded  during  the 
year  into  a  half-irritated,  even  if  affectionate,  toler- 
ance of  the  situation.  Lately,  however,  this  had 
been  mixed  with  that  sense  of  the  looming  prospect 
of  the  wedding  of  which  Mr.  Bromley  had  been  hear- 
ing incessantly.  Young  Holman — they  never  ab- 
breviated names  in  the  Wotherspoon  family — had 
been  suddenly  offered  a  position  in  the  West,  and  it 
was  natural  that  the  young  couple  should  want  to  be 
married  and  go  out  there  together;  but  the  subject 
was  mixed  with  a  corroding  sense  of  inadequacy,  at 
the  present  time,  to  the  father. 

Mr.  Bromley's  business,  at  first  hit  hard  by  the 
war  abroad,  had  begun  to  show  signs  unexpectedly 
of  being  bettered  by  it;  he  manufactured  a  "side" 
article  that  was  needed — he  had  borrowed  every  cent 
he  could  honestly  carry,  with  the  fair  prospect  of 
making  good  within  the  next  six  months;  in  the  mean- 
time, as  he  had  warned  his  wife,  they  must  cut  every- 
thing as  close  as  possible;  he  could  barely  get  out 
enough  for  the  daily  needs — it  simply  wasn't  there. 
How,  then,  was  he  to  "come  across"  for  a  wedding, 
that  wedding  which  he  was  never  allowed  to  for- 
get? He  simply  had  no  money  for  it. 

In  some  miraculous  way,  indeed,  during  the  past 
few  weeks  Rill  had  done  wonders  with  the  few  dollars 
he  had  wrung  out  for  her,  running  into  the  room  after 
dinner,  tall  and  smiling,  with  her  yellow  hair  and 
sea-blue  eyes,  to  show  something  lacy  and  ribboned, 
with  one  arm  flung  around  Daddy's  neck.  When- 
ever his  wife  moved,  she  dropped  something  she 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS        5 

was  making  for  Rill.  The  conversation  wafted 
incessantly  into  yards  of  lace,  and  how  much  of  this 
it  took  and  how  much  of  that.  Ben  Bromley  took  an 
anxious  glance  this  moment  at  his  shoes.  .  .  While 
Rill's  little  splendours,  augmented  by  a  couple  of 
checks  from  thoughtful  aunts,  momentarily  increased, 
the  rest  of  the  family  showed  an  almost  embarrassing 
seediness.  He  turned  for  relief  to  the  subject  of  the 
funeral — it  seemed  a  cool,  pleasant  refuge  where  no- 
body talked  of  clothing. 

"I  do  wish  I  could  go,  Jess!"  His  thin,  pleasant 
face  with  its  dark  eyes  took  on  a  hungry  expression. 

"Well,  why  don't  you,  dear?"  she  answered  ab- 
sently, shaking  the  shelled  peas  together  in  the  bowl 
as  she  inspected  them.  "  Though  it  seems  an  awfully 
long  distance,  of  course;  and  just  now,  with  all  the 
expense!" 

"That's  it!"  Mr.  Bromley's  brow  puckered.  "At 
any  ordinary  time  I  wouldn't  have  to  think  twice 
about  it;  I'd  just  go.  Aunt  Kit!  She  was  pretty  old, 
eighty-two;  why,  I  remember  her  as  long  as  I  remem- 
ber anything.  She  always  gave  me  molasses  cookies 
from  the  time  when  I  was  a  little  shaver  and  Father 
took  me  to  see  her.  Nobody's  cookies  were  as  good 
as  hers.  She  was  always  helping  somebody — that 
terrible  year  after  Father  died — I  don't  know  what 
we'd  have  done  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Kit;  I  used 
to  go  over  to  see  her  and  be  filled  up,  and  when  I  got 
my  first  place — and  lost  that  money.  .  .  .  She  did 
the  kind  of  things  you  can't  forget.  And  even  in 
these  last  years  when  she  couldn't  move  from  her 


6  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

chair,  she  was  always  jolly.  .  .  .  She's  been  the  link 
that  kept  the  family  together,  though  we'd  all  of  us 
moved  away  but  Marthe,  and  they  two  lived  alone  in 
the  old  house. 

"She  had  her  quirks,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  she 
thought  the  world  of  having  one  of  us  come  to  see 
her.  She  was  as  proud  as  they're  made  when  Coppy 
Barnes  stopped  off  on  his  way  home  from  the  regi- 
ment in  China  to  say  'How  do  you  do  ?'  first.  The  last 
trip  I  took  down  in  the  country  I  was  only  twenty 
miles  away,  and  never  got  over  to  see  her — I  just 
could  not  take  the  time.  She  heard  of  it,  too !  I  felt 
pretty  bad  about  it.  I  wrote  and  explained,  and 
she  had  Marthe  write  me  an  awfully  nice  letter. 
It  just  seems  to  me  that  I  have  to  go  to  Aunt  Kit's 
funeral!" 

Mrs.  Bromley  gave  a  weighing  glance  at  her  hus- 
band. He  had  a  peculiar  reverence  for  his  own  fam- 
ily impossible  to  impart  to  even  the  most  sympathetic 
wife. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know Of  course,  dear,  if  she  had 

left  you  anything;  but  it  seems 

"That's  all  the  more  reason  why  I  want  to  go. 
Henry  wrote  me  that  the  only  name  mentioned  in  the 
will  was  Marthe's,  and  that's  as  it  should  be.  She 
gets  the  house  and  everything — no  such  great  amount, 
anyway.  Aunt  Kit  sent  us  each  a  piece  of  the  old 
furniture  three  years  ago — I  think  more  of  that  chair 
Grandfather  carved  than  anything.  I  do  wish  I 
could  go  to  that  funeral!  I  feel  somehow  as  if  she'd 
know  if  I  didn't." 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS        7 

His  wife  looked  at  him  with  an  instant's  fond  ad- 
miration before  her  brow  wrinkled. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  speak  to  you  about  the 
wedding,  dear.  The  date  is  only  three  weeks  off — I 
don't  know  what  we're  going  to  do  about  it.  Rill,  of 
course,  wants  her  girl  friends,  and  even  with  only  the 
relatives  on  both  sides — the  Wotherspoons  have  so 
many ;  old  Mr.  Wotherspoon  was  one  of  eleven  children, 
you  know — and  just  the  most  intimate  friends  and 
neighbours,  it  counts  up  to  one  hundred  and  nine!" 

Mrs.  Bromley  paused,  with  haunted  eyes.  "  When 
there  are  five  and  six  in  a  family  you  can  see  how  it 
brings  it  up  before  you  know  it,  Ben;  and  you  have 
to  give  them  something  to  eat.  Even  if  you  cook  all 
the  chickens  and  make  the  salad  yourself,  it  costs, 
and  that's  only  the  beginning.  I  wouldn't  have 
started  in  for  it  if  I'd  realized  what  it  would  mean. 
It  seems  if  you  ask  one  person  you  have  to  ask  every- 
body else,  or  someone's  feelings  will  be  hurt.  We 
thought  it  would  all  be  so  simple.  Nothing  takes 
much,  you  see;  but  everything  takes  something" 

"  Why  in  thunder  do  they  want  to  be  married  now 
anyway?  Why  couldn't  they  wait  until  next  year, 
when  everything  could  be  fixed  up  all  right?" 

"Ben!  Don't  be  so  silly.  You  know  perfectly 
well  that  Rill  wants  to  go  out  there  with  Holman. 
She  says  she  is  quite  willing  just  to  slip  into  town  and 
get  married  in  a  corner  somewhere  rather  than  worry 
you — it's  impossible  to  get  married  privately  here  in 
a  place  where  you've  lived  so  long;  but  it  does  seem 
a  pity  when  it's  Rill — our  own  little,  good,  eldest 


8  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

daughter — when  she  has  a  home,  and  it's  the  one 
time  in  a  girl's  life ' 

* '  Yes,  yes !     Of  course. ' ' 

"It's  awfully  sweet  of  Holman  to  want  Top  for 
best  man — he  can  borrow  a  coat,  he  thinks;  but  the 
two  younger  boys  will  have  to  be  fitted  out  from  head 
to  foot;  and  Joe  tore  his  best  trousers  on  a  nail  last 
week.  Alice  has  to  have  stockings  and  ribbons.  Rill 
hasn't  her  suit  yet,  and  I  haven't  a  rag  for  myself. 
You  can't  appear  in  a  dress  that's  been  made  five 
years  if  you're  the  mother  of  the  bride — not  that  I 
care  about  myself  at  all!  And  you've  got  to  have 
new  shoes,  Ben,  whether  there's  a  wedding  or  not!" 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Mr.  Bromley,  parrot  wise. 
His  face  had  set,  as  in  stone,  into  the  wearied,  yet 
patient  lines  of  the  Purveyor  of  the  Funds,  the  real 
magician  of  modern  life,  continually,  before  the  con- 
fiding gaze  of  a  wife,  conjuring  from  a  box  seen  to 
be  empty. 

He  abstracted  a  wallet  from  his  coat  pocket,  and, 
opening  it,  produced  a  very  small  flat  sheaf  of  bills, 
counting  them  out  before  handing  them  to  her. 

"Make  it  go  as  far  as  you  can  for  what's  needed  at 
present,"  he  admonished  her.  "I  don't  know  when  I 
can  bring  you  any  more.  I  could  hardly  take  this  as 
it  is;  I  felt  like  a  thief." 

"Oh,  Ben!    I  hate  so  to  take  it  when 

"Oh,  never  mind!  We'll  come  out  all  right;  if 
you've  got  to  have  it,  you've  got  to,  and  that  is  all 
there  is  about  it.  But  make  it  go  just  as  far  as  you 
can." 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS        9 

He  stopped  short  in  his  walk  around  the  room  and 
leaned  with  one  arm  on  the  chiffonier,  his  face  raised 
toward  the  leafy  sky  that  filled  the  window  as  the 
words  broke  yearningly  from  him: 

"I  wish — I  wish  I  could  have  gone  to  Aunt  Kit's 
funeral !  It  would  do  me  more  good  than  anything  in 
the  world.  I  feel  that  I'll  never  forgive  myself  for 
not  going!" 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  said  his  wife,  staring.  He 
hadn't  been  like  himself  lately;  she  divined  in  him 
some  ail  that  she  couldn't  cure.  She  looked  at  him 
now  with  anxiety,  amusement,  and  a  certain  loving 
exasperation  rolled  into  one.  This  inopportune  in- 
sistence on  the  funeral  when  you  usually  couldn't 
drag  him  to  one!  Men  were  so  set  about  the  things 
they  wanted — it  seemed  as  strange  to  her  as  it  does 
to  most  wives,  when  a  man  passionately  desires  to  do 
something  "on  his  own."  But  she  went  up  to  him 
now  and  put  her  arm  tenderly  around  him,  while 
with  the  other  hand  she  strove  to  force  a  couple  of 
the  bills  into  his  tightly  clenched  fist. 

"Oh,  my  goodness,  if  you're  as  crazy  as  that  about 
your  old  funeral!  Take  this  back  again,  and  go. 
Ben !  You've  got  to —  No,  I  won't  do  as  you  say ! 
You  listen  to  me.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand 
your  moaning  about  not  having  gone,  for  the  next 
ten  years,  you're  very  much  mistaken.  Ben!  Open 
your  hand.  .  .  .  Stop  acting  so  silly!" 

She  had  the  sudden  carrying  power  of  a  whirling 
tornado.  "Stop,  I  say!  I  hate  it  when  you  make 
yourself  look  like  a  clown.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  care 


10  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

whether  Rill  has  a  wedding  or  not.  I  don't  care  what 
anybody  else  has;  we'll  manage!  But  you've  got  to 
go  to  that  funeral !  If  you  throw  those  bills  again  on 
the  floor  I'll  tear  them  up  into  little  pieces  and  burn 
them.  Ben— Ben  !  Dear ! " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  in  which  he  didn't 
make  himself  look  like  a  clown. 

"I'll  pack  your  bag  for  you  after  dinner,"  she  said 
happily. 

It  was  half-past  ten  when  he  left  the  house  to  run 
into  New  York  for  the  midnight  sleeper  on  the  Penn- 
sylvania. Rill  emerged,  rosy  and  star-eyed,  from 
the  darkness  of  the  piazza  corner  and  the  now  doubly 
occupied  hammock,  folio  wed  by  the  lover  to  the  lighted 
hallway  to  say  good-bye  to  the  traveller,  Rill,  as  usual, 
clinging  tightly  around  her  father's  neck — she  was 
nearly  as  tall  as  he  was — with  her  soft  yellow  hair  alJ 
over  his  face,  and  young  Holman  Wotherspoon  shak- 
ing hands  with  a  clean,  firm  grip,  in  spite  of  his 
slender  and  boyish  aspect.  Yes,  he  was  a  nice  fellow, 
even  if  he  did  belong  to  that  Wotherspoon  crowd. 
It  gave  the  elder  man  a  sense  of  irritation  to  see  the 
two  disappearing  back  to  the  hammock — before  he 
was  fairly  off — to  stay,  of  course,  untilJess  called  them 
in. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  having  mercifully  escaped 
into  the  open  that  he  took  his  place  in  the  sleeper. 
As  he  lay  there,  swaying  with  the  chug-chug  of  the 
train,  that  stricturing  cord  wound  around  him  seemed 
to  relax;  both  business  and  domestic  perplexities 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   11 

showed  signs  of  fading  away.  He  had  lately  got 
into  one  of  the  pockets  of  life  where  he  could  see 
nothing  but  his  own  affairs — nothing  in  the  world 
really  mattered  now  but  getting  results  from  the 
business — he  couldn't  afford  to  think  of  anything 
else  until  he  "pulled  out."  It  annoyed  him  that 
he  couldn't  give  way  to  his  usual  kind  consideration 
for  others — but  he  couldn't;  he  had  had  to  send  two 
clerks  packing  the  day  before.  But  he  was  going 
back  to  the  sight  of  the  hills,  the  breath  of  the  pines, 
the  old  simple  associations  that  were  peculiarly  his 
own,  back  of  this  present  existence  shared  with  others; 
it  would  be  good  to  see  "the  folks"  although,  of 
course,  there  couldn't  be  many  of  them  there. 

He  found  himself  smiling  once  or  twice  behind  his 
curtains;  it  was  more  as  if  he  were  going  on  one  of 
his  jolly  visits  to  Aunt  Kit  instead  of  to  her  funeral. 
She  had  developed  more  and  more,  with  the  troublous 
years,  a  cheeriness  and  optimism  that  amounted  to 
genius.  In  the  intervals  of  a  pain  that  cursed  her 
cruelly  at  times,  she  was  always  ready  from  her 
wheeled  chair  to  tell  or  hear  some  new  thing;  her: 
"Lands!  I'd  die  if  I  didn't  find  something  to  laugh 
at,"  was  a  familiar  sound;  she  said,  with  a  cheerful 
conviction  that  carried  conviction  to  others,  that 
the  Lord  helped  her  a  lot. 

She  equipped  her  phonograph  not  only  with  bari- 
tone solos  and  religious  quartets,  but  also  with  the 
latest  vaudeville  songs  and  ragtime;  and  after  forty 
years  of  dominoes,  anagrams,  and  picture  puzzles,  at 
the  age  of  seventy -six  learned  from  the  young  doctor 


12  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

across  the  street  to  play  pinochle,  and  thenceforth- 
ward  defeated  everyone  who  could  be  lured  to  a  game 
with  her.  Her  fresh-coloured,  plump,  finely  wrinkled 
face,  with  the  snow-white  hair  above  it  and  her  gray- 
blue  eyes  under  their  delicate  arched  brows,  came  so 
vividly  before  Ben  Bromley  that  it  didn't  seem  pos- 
sible that  he  shouldn't  hear  the  warm  greeting  of  her 
tremulous  old  voice.  He  could  fancy  himself  coming 
away  with  the  usual  package  of  her  peerless  molasses 
cookies  and  that  rejuvenated  feeling  with  which  one 
always  left.  .  .  .  And  he  needed  the  feeling.  He 
yearned  to  be  reinforced  in  some  way.  Back  of  all 
that  sense  of  being  tightly  clamped  into  the  interests 
of  a  business  world,  where  domestic  issues  didn't 
count,  was  this  infernal,  inopportune  matter  of  the 
wedding,  which  he  couldn't  lose. 

He  knew  perfectly  well  that  his  loving  wife  would 
sacrifice  herself  without  question  for  him,  if  need 
were;  but  he  also  knew  perfectly  well  that  if  he 
couldn't  provide  the  simple  plenishings  and  the  sim- 
ple wedding  for  their  darling  daughter  she  would 
always  feel,  even  though  she  loyally  denied  it  to  her- 
self, that  he  had  been  found  lacking.  He  should 
have  been  prepared  when  the  time  came  to  give  his 
loving  child  her  honourable  due;  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  had  never  thought  of  it.  He  might  rage  inwardly 
at  all  this  unnecessary  fuss — Rill  was  as  sweet  as 
they  were  made;  she  would,  as  her  mother  had  said, 
go  and  get  married  in  a  corner  if  it  made  it  easier 
for  him.  What  really  touched  him  on  the  raw  was 
that  he  couldn't  provide  for  his  darling  girl  as  he 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   13 

wished.  He  would  have  loved  to  be  the  hearty,  gen- 
erous father,  loading  her  with  benefits.  It  seemed  at 
the  moment  a  subtly  additional  grievance  that  it 
should  be  the  conventional  Wotherspoon  family  into 
which  she  was  marrying. 

The  darkly  green,  deeply  wooded  hills  were  already 
walling  in  the  train  when  he  got  up  the  next  morning. 
As  he  stepped  into  the  lurching  dining  car  for  break- 
fast, he  gave  a  start  of  surprise — at  a  table  facing 
him  sat  a  lanky,  cadaverous,  but  prosperous-looking 
individual,  with  a  prominent  green  jade  scarf  phi, 
black  eyes,  a  long  upper  lip,  and  an  iron-gray  beard 
and  hair — no  other  than  a  cordially  detested  cousin 
named  Boardman  Skank. 

"Hello,  Boardman!"  said  Ben  agreeably,  to  a 
muttered  greeting  from  the  other.  "Well,  this 
is  luck  for  me!  How  are  you?  I  never  expected  to 
see  you  here.  I'll  take  this  seat  opposite  and  let  you 
pay  for  my  breakfast.  I'm  a  little  short  myself. 
Here,  waiter,  take  my  order  with  this  gentleman's 
and  bring  the  check  for  both  to  him." 

"You  think  you're  funny,"  said  Mr.  Skank,  with  a 
whitening  around  his  thin  nostrils. 

"No,  Boardman,  I  don't  think  I'm  funny,  I  know  I 
am.  I  feel  just  like  amusing  you,"  said  Ben  geni- 
ally. "How's  the  hoss  trade?  I  understand  you're 
still  extracting  shekels  from  the  unwary,  manfully 
giving  up  the  honest  joy  of  the  poor  man.  Going  to 
Aunt  Kit's  funeral?" 

"Well,  I  intended  to  take  it  in  when  I  left  Danbury 
last  evening  to  catch  this  train,"  said  the  other.  *'I 


14          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

got  a  letter  Saturday  from  Hen  Brown  about  the 
funeral;  but  I  stuck  it  in  my  pocket  and  didn't  read  the 
rest  of  it  till  this  morning.  He  says  the  only  name 
mentioned  in  the  will  was  Marthe's.  Of  course  that's 
what  Marthe  has  been  playing  for  all  these  years." 

"She  deserves  all  she'll  get,"  said  Ben  staunchly. 
"Besides,  Aunt  Kit  didn't  have  so  much,  anyway. 
Waiter,  you  can  bring  me  a  couple  of  your  best 
cigars." 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  have  hurt  her  to  remember  some 
of  the  rest  of  us,"  said  Mr.  Skank,  sourly,  with  a 
further  whitening  around  his  nostrils  in  his  uneasy 
glance  at  his  cousin.  "Aunt  Kit  was  as  queer  as 
Dick's  hatband,  anyway.  I've  a  mind  to  stop  off  at 
this  next  town — I've  got  a  chance  for  a  deal  in  horse- 
flesh with  a  man  that's  aboard  the  train." 

"Oh,  come  on  with  me,"  said  Ben  affectionately. 
"  Don't  leave  me !  I'm  counting  on  you  to  take  me 
over  in  a  taxi  from  the  station.  I  feel  it's  providen- 
tial, my  meeting  you  in  this  way." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said  Mr. 
Skank  disgustedly,  gulping  down  his  breakfast  mo- 
rosely to  Ben's  airy  converse. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ben,  with  true  joy,  saw  him 
get  off  at  the  next  stop  with  his  horsy  friend. 

In  a  couple  of  hours  more  he  was  himself  alighting 
at  the  little  station  with  its  immense  platforms  for 
freight,  afterward  slowly  making  his  way  back  to- 
ward the  outskirts  of  the  older  portion  of  the  town — 
the  funeral  was  not  until  afternoon — where  the  houses 
in  the  quiet,  narrow  street  backed  up  against  hills, 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   15 

and  a  little  stream  ran  under  the  wooden  footbridge. 
There  was  a  clear- washed  blue  sky;  the  sun  was 
bright,  but  the  pines  above  were  steeped,  as  usual,  in 
their  own  solemn  darkness.  He  went  thoughtfully 
up  the  ancient  box-bordered  path  to  the  low-stepped 
doorway  with  the  fanlight  overhead  and  a  vivid  pink 
hollyhock  at  one  side,  beside  which  the  crape  on  the 
doorbell  showed  incongruously.  Yes,  Aunt  Kit,  sure 
enough,  was  dead.  But  the  door  stood  ajar;  from 
within  came  a  buzz  of  voices.  The  front  room  was 
of  course  given  up  to  the  state  occupancy  of  the  dead; 
but  as  he  stepped  cautiously  onto  the  black  and 
white  oilcloth  squares  of  the  hall,  a  face  instantly 
peeped  around  the  corner — the  small,  delicate  face  of 
Marthe,  with  her  slightly  grayish  hair  and  blue  eyes 
like  Aunt  Kit's. 

"Who's  that?  For  the  land  sakes,  if  it  isn't  Benjie 
Bromley!  Well,  if  that  isn't  good;  I  never  supposed 
you'd  come  all  the  way  from  New  York.  Walk  right 
in  back  here,  Benjie." 

"Benjie!"  The  old  nickname  made  him  smile; 
but  he  hastily  composed  his  features  to  a  decorous 
solemnity,  a  process,  however,  made  unnecessary  by 
the  cheerfulness  of  the  mourning  party  of  perhaps  a 
dozen  people  who  filled  the  small  rag-carpeted  room, 
sitting  in  various  positions  of  ease  between  the  red- 
covered  table  and  the  brown-papered  walls  hung 
with  the  oval-framed  photographs  of  the  family, 
while  the  sun  shone  through  the  pink  hollyhocks 
peeping  in  at  the  white-curtained  windows.  Only 
Aunt  Kit's  wheeled  chair  was  empty. 


16  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

The  next  moment  he  was  shaking  hands  and  being 
greeted  warmly  by  each  one  of  the  group;  the  two 
high-nosed  Spanner  "girls,"  nearing  sixty,  but  who 
didn't  look  it,  dressed  expensively  in  the  height  of 
the  fashion;  portly  Uncle  El  and  little  deaf  Aunt 
Petra;  the  smiling  but  always  speechless  Hen  Brown, 
almost  a  relation  by  the  friendship  of  years;  young 
James  and  Francis  Hartley,  small  and  eager-eyed; 
Lucy  Ward  and  her  lame  husband,  Jepson,  and — 
could  it  be? — plump  and  pretty  as  at  her  wedding 
years  ago,  with  wide-open  blue  eyes,  little  tendrils  of 
fair  hair  on  her  broad,  low  forehead,  her  white  teeth 
shining  from  her  generous  mouth,  no  other  than  his 
special  girl  cousin,  Belle  Bromley  before  she  was 
Belle  Higgins. 

"Well,  this  is  good!"  he  murmured,  bef  ore  Marthe's 
voice  broke  in. 

"If  you'll  sit  down,  Benjie — the  funeral  isn't  till 
two  o'clock,  we're  to  have  lunch  before  and  it's  quite 
a  little  time  off  yet — I  was  just  telling  about  it  all 
as  you  came  in.  Aunt  Kit  passed  away  so  peacefully 
we  hardly  sensed  that  she  was  gone.  .  .  .  But  she'd 
been  preparing  for  a  long  time,  she  knew  the  end 
was  near.  Before  she  died  she  gave  to  all  the  people 
around  here  who  had  worked  for  her,  and  the  poor 
families  in  the  Hollow  that  she  always  looked  out 
for;  the  Reverend,  he  says  he  never  had  a  truer 
helper  than  she.  She  talked  about  you  all  every  day; 
she'd  have  been  that  tickled  to  see  so  many  from  a 
distance!  I  thought  maybe  Joe  would  come — but 
it's  a  pretty  long  way  from  Boston;  and  Min  Spencer, 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   17 

I  had  a  letter  from  her  saying  she  was  just  starting 
for  San  Francisco.  But  Aunt  Kit  told  me  to  tell  you 
that  it  would  be  perfectly  ridiculous  for  any  one  to  be 
mourning  for  her,  or  talk  low  and  appropriate,  when 
she  was  so  mortal  glad  to  go !  And  she  wanted  every- 
body who  came  to  her  funeral  just  to  forget  it,  and 
act  human,  the  same  as  they  did  any  time — just  as 
they  would  if  she  were  here.  She  said  there  didn't 
seem  anything  strange  to  her  about  dying,  she'd  lived 
so  much  with  the  good  Lord  these  last  years — of 
course  I  know  Aunt  Kit  was  queer! — that  He  just 
seemed  like  one  of  the  folks,  and  you  know  how 
much  she  thought  of  them !  And  she  expected  to  be 
enjoying  herself  this  minute  more'n  she'd  ever  done. 
She  wanted  you  should  hear  the  phonograph  before 
luncheon — she  thought  the  world  of  that  phono- 
graph! 

"  She  planned  the  luncheon :  chicken  potpie  and  hot 
biscuit  and  the  best  peach  and  strawberry  preserves 
and  plenty  of  cream  for  the  coffee — she  cared  so  much 

for  you  all "  Marthe's  voice  trembled  slightly, 

but  she  steadied  it  before  she  went  on.  "She  made 
me  put  that  little  picture  of  her  at  sixteen — right 
sweet,  isn't  it? — on  the  table  there,  for  that  was  the 
way  she  allowed  she  looked  now.  I've  got  to  leave 
you  and  see  to  things  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Quinn; 
but  I'll  set  the  phonograph  going  first.  You  men 
smoke  if  you  want  to,  for  goodness'  sake;  she'd  like 
it  all  the  better." 

The  strains  of  "Anchored"  in  a  deep  baritone  voice 
were  filling  the  room  as  Mr.  Bromley  went  over  and 


18 

took  the  chair  by  Belle,  to  meet  her  "Hello,  Benny 
Ben!  "as  of  old. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  Belle?  I  say,  this  seems  good. 
You  look  as  young  as  when  I  saw  you  last — let  me 
see,  that  was  at  Uncle  Ben's  funeral." 

"I'm  not,  though !  I've  got  a  boy  of  nineteen,  and 
a  girl  of  seventeen." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"It's  a  shame  that  we  none  of  us  ever  see  each 
other  any  more  unless  somebody's  dead.  Aunt  Kit 
kept  us  all  together!  I've  heard  of  you  and  your 
family  through  her  and  Marthe;  I  understand  your 
daughter  is  to  be  married  soon." 

"Yes,  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Bromley,  with  a  pang. 

"  I'd  love  to  see  Jess  again  and  all  your  children.  I 
hear  that  you're  a  very  successful  business  man, 
Benjie;  we're  all  proud  of  you." 

Mr.  Bromley  cleared  his  throat.  "Well,  the  war 
put  us  back,  of  course — it's  been  a  trying  time,  this 
last  year;  but  we're  going  to  pull  out  fine  after 
a  while."  His  voice  dropped.  "How  are  you 
fixed?" 

Her  voice  changed  to  match  his;  to  the  eyes  that 
watched  her  tenderly  her  pretty  face  changed  a  little, 
too,  the  lines  in  it  became  marked;  through  its  look 
of  youth  showed  the  imprint  of  time  and  care. 

"Well,  I've  been  teaching  dancing  for  the  past  ten 
years  you  know,  ever  since  Edward  died.  Rena,  my 
girl,  is  helping  me  now;  she  takes  my  classes  when 
I'm  away.  I  was  bound  to  get  off  to  Aunt  Kit's  fu- 
neral— she  always  did  one  good,  you  know;  I  can't 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   19 

help  feeling  as  if  she  were  here  just  the  same!  I 
came  on  from  Camden  yesterday  and  stayed  all 
night.  But  the  fact  is,  Benjie,  I'm  just  a  little  both- 
ered about  Ted,  my  boy,  these  days." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  It's  hard  bringing  up  a  boy  without  his  father — 
Ted's  as  good  as  he  can  be,  and  he  is  a  fine-looking 
boy,  too,  if  I  do  say  it,  but — he's  restless." 

"He  isn't  going  to  college?" 

The  mother  shook  her  curly  head;  she  set  her  lips 
in  a  way  that  Ben  remembered. 

"No.  Maybe  you'll  think  I'm  hard,  but  I  thought 
it  all  out.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  that — mothers  or  sisters 
working  themselves  to  the  bone  to  earn  enough 
money  to  send  a  boy  through  college;  and  I've  never 
seen  one  case — it  may  exist,  but  I've  never  seen  it — 
in  which  doing  that  paid.  It  seems  to  take  some- 
thing out  of  a  boy,  some  grit  that  he  ought  to  have. 
He  usually  marries  before  he  has  anything  to  live  on, 
and  naturally  keeps  on  expecting  Mother  or  Sister  to 
help  him  out  as  usual,  just  when  she  expects  to  be 
taken  care  of  herself.  It  seemed  to  me  I  hadn't 
any  right  to  sap  Ted's  will  power  in  that  way;  I'm 
not  sure  yet  how  much  he  has.  He's  clerking  in 
one  of  the  shops  at  home  just  now — he  gets  only  four 
a  week,  it  isn't  really  what  he's  meant  for;  but  he'll 
have  to  find  something.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if, 
after  all,  I've  made  a  mistake." 

"I  think  you've  been  dead  right,"  said  Ben  em- 
phatically. "You're  a  trump,  Belle."  He  took 
her  plump  hand  in  his. 


20          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you 
say  that!  I  feel  so  inadequate.  Do  you  remember 
when  you  used  to  carry  me  across  the  brook  to  school? 
It  seems  so  good  to  talk  to  you,  Benjie;  you  see  there 
isn't  any  man  of  my  own  people  to  give  me  advice. 
But  I  mustn't  keep  you  to  myself  any  longer  now. 
The  Spanner  girls  want  to  speak  to  you,  and  Uncle 
El;  he  and  Aunt  Petra  came  down  from  the  farm 
early  this  morning." 

"I'll  see  you  later,"  said  Ben  confidentially. 

There  was  a  little  flutter  in  the  manner  of  Cal 
and  Til  as  he  approached;  both  of  their  faces 
beamed  under  their  large,  thin-brimmed,  fashionable 
hats. 

"Well,  to  think  that  we  have  to  come  all  the  way 
out  here  to  Aunt  Kit's  funeral  to  meet  you,  Ben, 
when  we  live  only  ten  miles  away  at  home!  I  don't 
believe  we've  seen  you  since  Father's  funeral." 

"It's  a  shame,  isn't  it,"  said  Ben  heartily. 

"Of  course  we  know  your  time  is  very  valuable — 
such  a  prominent  man  as  you  have  become.  How's 
Jessie  and  Rill?  So  Rill  is  to  be  married — she  is  so 
pretty.  Cal  and  I  ran  across  them  both  a  couple 
of  weeks  ago,  shopping.  I  suppose  they  told  you. 
We  want  to  know  what  Rill  would  like  for  a  wedding 
present.  I  have  some  old  silver  candlesticks  plated 
on  copper  that  were  her  great-grandmother's — I 
thought  she  might  like  them." 

"She'll  be  crazy  over  them,"  said  Ben  soberly. 
"You're  too  good." 

"And  Til,  here,  wants  to  give  her  table  linen — that 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   21 

always  comes  in  handy.  We're  going  to  get  to  the 
wedding,  no  matter  what  happens — that  is,  of  course, 
if  you  mean  to  ask  us." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Ben  hastily,  with  a  craven 
sinking  of  the  heart.  He  nerved  himself  for  explana- 
tion. "But  it  will — er — er — it  will  be  very  quiet; 
we  don't  believe  in  having  much  fuss." 

"That's  so  much  better  taste,"  said  Cal  approv- 
ingly. "I  call  all  those  big,  gorgeous  displays 
vulgar." 

"Well,  Uncle  El,  you  old  skate,  is  that  you?  How 
are  you?"  said  Ben,  turning  away.  "The  girls  and 
I  have  finished  our  little  talk.  Draw  your  chair  back 
here."  He  flung  his  arm  affectionately  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  older  man,  as  the  two  moved  out  of 
the  circle. 

Uncle  El  tipped  his  chair  back  as  far  as  it  would  go. 
"Well,  it  did  me  good,  looking  at  you  just  now,  talk- 
ing to  Cal  and  Til.  Success  hasn't  hardened  you  a 
bit,  Ben,  as  it  does  most  of  your  New  York  financiers, 
you've  got  that  same  kind  face  you  always  had. 
We've  been  hearing  through  Jim  Balker  what  a  busi- 
ness you're  doing,  and  I  tell  you  we're  mighty  proud 
of  you." 

"How's  Jepson  getting  along?"  Ben's  eyes  had 
roved  over  to  the  dejected  figure  of  Lucy's  husband, 
patiently  supplying  disks  for  the  phonograph  with  a 
startlingly  varied  selection. 

"Why,  he Just  wait  a  moment,  the  under- 
taker's beckoning  out  in  the  hall Here,  Ben,  he 

wants  a  couple  of  vases  for  some  flowers .  Where 


was  I?  Oh,  Jepson.  Well,  he  hasn't  been  able  to 
keep  his  job  for  a  good  while." 

"On  account  of  his  lameness?" 

"No,  that  doesn't  trouble  him  any."  Uncle  El 
looked  around  with  care  before  forming  the  words 
soundlessly  with  his  lips: 

"Takes — too — much,"  and  then  nodded  in  con- 
firmation several  times.  "Yes,  that's  what's  the 
matter  with  him.  He  says  he  is  in  real  estate  now, 
and  you  know  what  that  means;  he's  aiming  to  get  a 
big  commission  when  he  sells  the  old  Tait  mansion, 
twenty-two  rooms,  standing  empty  for  eight  years. 
Huh !  Aunt  Kit  provided  some  for  poor  Lucy  before 
she  died.  Lucy  never  had  any  sand,  though.  There 
are  no  bequests;  Marthe  gets  all  that's  left,  but  it 
isn't  so  much,  after  all.  I  think  Aunt  Kit  hoped  Hen 
Brown  would  get  a  move  on  and  ask  her  to  marry 
him  now.  Marine's  been  in  love  with  him  for  twenty 
years." 

"Why  hasn't  he  asked  her  before?" 

Uncle  El  again  looked  around,  and  again  sound- 
lessly formed  the  answer  with  his  lips : 

"Slow."  He  nodded  once  more,  before  going  on 
aloud :  "  She'd  be  a  little  mo-not-onous  to  me,  but  Hen 
isn't  wildly  exciting.  Seems  kinder  good,  all  meeting 
like  this  and  talking  each  other  over,  doesn't  it?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Ben,  laughing.  "You're  a  great  one, 
Uncle  El." 

"Well,  if  you  can't  slam  your  own  folks,  who  can 
you  slam?"  returned  Uncle  El  agreeably.  He  moved 
his  portly  figure  a  little  nearer. 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   23 

"Your  Aunt  Petra  and  I  were  just  saying,  when 
we  heard  your  girl  was  to  be  married  next  month — 
we  remember  her  that  time  she  was  down  at  the  farm, 
when  she  was  five,  with  those  long  light  curls,  pretty 
as  a  picture — we  were  saying  that  we'd  get  all  the 
rest  of  the  folks  together — Sister  Anne,  and  her  girls, 
and  Mary  Wilson  and  the  professor — they  couldn't 
come  to-day — and  just  make  up  a  party  and  go  to  the 
wedding.  I'm  sick  of  only  meeting  at  funerals;  it's 
not  more  than  three  hours'  journey  from  us.  That 
is,  of  course,  if  you  are  not  ashamed  of  your  country 
cousins." 

"Country  nothing!"  said  Ben  wanderingly.  "We'll 
be  honoured."  He  looked  around  in  sudden  despera- 
tion. "Hello,  Hen,  can't  you  find  a  chair?  My, 
that  coffee  smells  good!  Here  comes  Marthe  now." 

"Everything  will  be  ready  in  a  minute,"  said 
Marthe.  She  dropped  down  wearily  in  a  seat  by 
Ben,  her  thin  face  taking  on  a  tinge  of  colour  as  she 
patted  his  hand. 

"Aunt  Kit  would  have  been  pleased  as  Punch  that 
you  came,  Benjie.  She  thought  a  lot  of  you.  She 
used  to  say  that  she  was  terribly  fond  of  men,  the 
same  as  all  old  women  are;  they  have  to  live  with 
their  own  kind  so  much.  .  .  .  The  little  Italian  child 
has  been  at  the  door  with  a  big  bunch  of  wild  flowers. 
Aunt  Kit  gave  her  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  last  week, 
tied  up  in  pink  tissue  paper;  it  just  tickled  her  to  give 
little  sums  like  that  sometimes,  instead  of  always 
having  it  dragged  out  of  her!"  She  raised  her  voice. 
"Has  any  one  seen  anything  of  Boardman  Skank?" 


24          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Why,  I  have,"  said  Ben,  laughing.  He  narrated 
the  incident  of  the  train.  "I  don't  think  he'll  get 
here." 

"Well,  I  hope  he  won't,"  said  Marthe  feelingly. 
"Aunt  said  she  was  pretty  sure  he  wouldn't  come  all 
that  way — farther  off  even  than  you,  Benjie — if  he 
wouldn't  gain  anything  by  it;  but  sometimes  she  was 
afraid  he  might,  to  spite  her,  he  was  so  mean  and 
contrary.  He  did  her  some  low  tricks,  'way  back,  and 
when  she  sent  him  one  of  the  old  pieces  of  furniture 
three  years  ago  he  mailed  her  a  bill  for  the  expressage; 
she  said  even  the  thought  of  him  messed  her  mind  all 
up,  and  she  didn't  want  him  in  the  house,  whether 
she  was  alive  or  dead.  Aunt  Kit  was  as  good  as 
they're  made,  but  she  had  her  quirks.  If  you  want 
to  go  in  now,  Benjie,  and  take  a  look  at  her  before  I 

close  the  coffin,  as  she  wanted  me  to "  Marthe's 

voice  trembled  a  little  once  more.  "Everyone  else 
has  been  in." 

"Yes,  I'd  been  wanting  to,"  he  said  soberly. 

He  slipped  away  into  the  stillness  of  the  front 
room.  He  was  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  few  minutes  by 
Aunt  Kit,  with  all  the  world,  it  seemed,  shut  out. 
The  sight  of  the  ever-loving  old  face,  with  a  sort  of 
peaceful  royalty  in  it,  now  brought  back  to  him  dis- 
connected, strangely  sweet  impressions  of  his  father 
and  mother;  of  the  little  brother  who  had  died;  of 
the  way  the  sky  had  looked  to  him  when  he  was  a 
little  boy;  the  words  of  a  childish  prayer  came  un- 
bidden to  his  lips.  With  the  love  for  those  who  were 
gone  a  deep  friendliness  seemed  to  stir  in  his  heart 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   25 

for  the  ones  who  were  left.  .  .  .  When  he  went 
back  to  the  gathered  company,  Marthe  disappeared 
in  her  turn  and  came  back  after  a  brief  absence,  red- 
eyed.  But  she  announced:  "There's  Mrs.  Quinn. 
Lunch  is  ready.  Come  right  in  and  seat  yourselves. 
I'll  set  the  phonograph  going  with  'Old  Black  Joe' 
and  leave  the  door  open.  .  .  .  She  wanted  you 
should  enjoy  it.  Hen,  go  and  shoo  that  hearse  away 
till  it's  time  for  it.  It  would  have  given  Aunt  Kit 
a  fit  to  have  it  standing  outside  while  we  were  eating." 

It  was  a  pleasant,  not  to  say  a  jolly  meal;  every 
sentence  seemed  to  begin  with  "Do  you  recollect?" — 
in  stories  that  Aunt  Kit  had  loved;  everyone  was 
gratefully  ravenous  for  the  chicken  potpie  and  the 
hot  biscuits  that  Aunt  Kit  herself  seemed  to  have 
provided  for  them. 

Ben  was  opposite  Belle,  pale,  and  smiling  over  at 
him  from  time  to  time;  but  in  private  converse  with 
James  and  Francis  leaning  over  on  one  side  of  him 
he  offered  to  try  and  get  a  customer  for  those  high- 
priced  eggs  in  a  certain  down-town  club  he  knew  of. 
Poor  weak  Jepson,  on  the  other  side,  hungrily  drink- 
ing in  the  words  of  the  great  man,  was  bidden  to  look 
him  up  and  lunch  with  him  the  next  week  when 
Jepson  was  in  town.  Lucy's  tearful  look  of  gratitude 
repaid  him,  though  she  followed  it  up  with  the  para- 
lyzing proclamation  that  she  would  have  to  fix  up  a 
hat  to  go  to  the  wedding.  If  it  were  not  for  these  al- 
hisions,  making  him  look  awkward  and  feel  cold  all 
over !  There  was  a  pleasant  warming  quality  in  this 
cousinly  companionship — there  is  nothing  that  re- 


26  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

stores  one's  sense  of  power  more  than  being  able  to 
help  others.  But  the  meal  was  over  soon.  The 
front  room,  as  Marthe  announced,  was  filling  up  with 
people. 

"The  clergyman  is  just  arriving,  so  we'd  better 
go  in.  The  coffin's  closed,  as  I  said,  but  she  wished 
her  kin  to  be  right  around  her.  And  I  may  as  well 
tell  you,  she  didn't  want  any  peaceful  hymns  sung; 
she  said  she  had  enough  of  sitting  peacefully  in  a 
chair  for  thirty  years,  and  she  wanted  something  with 
get-up-and-go  to  it,  so  we're  to  have  'Onward, 
Christian  Soldiers'  instead,  and  'Awake  My  Soul, 
Stretch  Every  Nerve.'  I  hope  you'll  all  sing." 

As  long  as  Ben  could  remember  he  had  known 
that  front  room  with  its  long  mahogany  sofa,  the 
big,  brown  rep  armchairs,  and  the  large  steel  engrav- 
ings. The  sunlight  played  over  the  bunch  of  tiger 
lilies  and  ox-eye  daisies,  that  the  Italian  girl  had 
brought,  on  the  stand  near  the  window.  The  clergy- 
man's voice  was  clear  and  full  and  cheerful,  and  the 
hymns,  started  by  Marthe's  sweet,  thin  voice,  were 
taken  up  with  a  will  by  others.  It  seemed  to  set 
them  all  spiritedly  marching  to  some  unseen  high 
goal. 

And  afterward  they  tramped  off  together,  two  by 
two  behind  the  hearse,  to  the  little  familiar  burial 
plot  of  the  white  church  on  the  hill  behind  the  house, 
with  its  old  headstones  and  crosses,  the  dark  pines 
above  them,  and  the  blue  above  that.  And  even 
then  Aunt  Kit  didn't  seem  to  be  dead;  her  strong 
and  loving  spirit  seemed  so  alive  among  them. 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   27 

Ben  walked  back  when  it  was  all  over,  with  Belle 
beside  him,  the  wind  blowing  her  pretty  hair. 

"And  I'll  tell  you  what,  .  .  .  I've  been 
thinking — you  send  your  boy  up  to  me  next  month 
and  I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  a  better  place  for  him  in 
town;  a  real  opening  that'll  teach  him  something." 

"Oh,  Ben,  it's  like  you!    But  you're  too  good, 

you- 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  do  my  share;  there's 
nobody  has  more  right,  outside  my  own  family,  than 
you,  Belle;  you  were  always  like  my  little  sister.  But 
don't  say  another  word;  I'll  write  you.  You  see, 
I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  things — and  people — get 
sort  of  crowded  out  the  way  I  live,  when  one  is  try- 
ing to  work  up  a  business;  but  you  must  remember 
that  I'm  there  just  the  same.  I  wish  you  were  going 
back  now  in  the  train  with  me." 

"I  wish  so,  too;  but  I  promised  to  stay  all  night 
with  Marthe  and  the  Spanner  girls  to  look  over  some 
of  the  things." 

"Yes,  I  know;  everyone  seems  to  be  leaving  at  a 
different  time.  As  I  have  the  farthest  to  go  I  must 
skip  as  soon  as  I  get  my  valise,  and  take  the  trolley 
over  to  the  Junction  to  catch  the  express;  if  I  waited 
till  night  I  wouldn't  arrive  till  ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
and  that's  too  late.  I  tell  you,  I'm  mighty  glad  I 
came,  Belle.  It's  meant  a  lot  to  me.  And  I  feel 
just  as  if  Aunt  Kit  knew  it." 

"I'm  sure  she  does,"  said  Belle.  She  hesitated, 
and  then  went  on  impulsively:  "I'm  going  to  see 
you  and  Jess,  anyway,  at  your  little  Rill's  wedding, 


28  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

no  matter  what  happens,  Ben,  dear.  Why  should 
we  wait  for  another  funeral?  As  Uncle  El  says,  the 
family  will  rally  round  you  this  time!  My  Rena 
wouldn't  miss  it  for  anything.  Why  are  you  looking 
around,  have  you  lost  something?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Ben,  recovering  himself.  That 
infernal  wedding  came  up  to  stagger  him  at  every 
turn.  He  had  a  moment's  impulse  to  explain;  but  it 
wasn't  any  use.  "That's  fine,"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"It'll  be  a  shame  to  go  away  without  some  of  Aunt 
Kit's  molasses  cookies,  won't  it?  " 

But  when  they  went  into  the  house  even  that  last 
touch  wasn't  lacking.  Marthe  was  bending  over  an 
immense  blue  bowl  of  them  on  the  sideboard. 

"Aunt  Kit  wanted  you  should  each  have  some  of 
her  cookies  to  take  back  with  you,  the  same  as  usual," 
she  explained.  Marthe  looked  tired,  there  was  a  red 
spot  on  each  of  her  cheeks.  "Hen,  hand  me  that 
paper  and  a  string,  will  you?  Here's  your  package, 
Benjie,  put  'em  in  your  valise  and  don't  eat  'em  till 
you're  on  the  train.  It's  a  mercy  Boardman  Skank 
didn't  show  up,  Aunt  Kit  would  have  turned  in  her 
grave!" 

In  the  bustle  of  farewells  that  followed,  Ben  found 
a  chance  for  a  word  to  the  always  smiling  and  speech- 
less Hen.  "Why  don't  you  ask  Marthe  to  marry 
you?  She's  a  mighty  fine  woman." 

Hen  turned  slow  and  inquiring  eyes  on  the  ques- 
tioner; his  rosy  face  paled. 

"Do  you  think  she'd  have  me?" 

"Find  out,"  said  Ben,  and  went  through  the  gate, 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   29 

laughing,  as  he  waved  his  hand  back  at  the  group 
on  the  porch,  all  waving  to  him  in  farewell. 

It  was  a  couple  of  hours  more  after  the  ride  in  the 
hurtling,  bounding  trolley,  and  another  long  wait  at 
the  grimy,  coal-dusted  station  with  its  shunting  en- 
gines, its  intersecting  tracks,  and  its  vapid-eyed, 
shabbily  clad  waiting  crowd,  before  the  belated  train 
came  along.  He  had  time  to  live  over  the  day  just 
spent,  to  feel  to  the  full  the  glow  of  relationship,  the 
pleasure  of  being  sought  by  everyone,  and  of  being 
of  service.  Yes,  going  to  see  Aunt  Kit  hadn't  failed 
of  its  reviving  power — it  wasn't  for  nothing  she  had 
brought  the  family  together  once  more. 

But  by  the  time  he  was  settled  for  the  night  in  the 
sleeper  he  began  to  feel  the  old  fatigue  and  worry 
settling  over  him. 

After  all,  he  was  going  back  to  yards  of  lace,  and 
that  burden  which,  though  momentarily  lifted,  was 
the  same;  nay,  was  the  greater  by  the  mistaken  whole- 
hearted rallying  around  him  of  his  kin.  How  on  earth 
was  he  to  write  and  tell  them,  without  wounding 
them  sorely,  that  they  were  not  to  come — that  there 
was  to  be  no  wedding  feast?  People  never  believed 
you  when  you  said  you  couldn't  afford  certain  things. 

It  seemed  extraordinary  to  him  now,  that  he  had 
even  taken  the  money  to  come  to  this  funeral.  Some 
vague  hope  of  unforeseen  relief — he  didn't  know 
what,  that  he  seemed  to  have  been  cherishing  uncon- 
sciously— had  vanished.  Well,  the  only  honest  thing 
to  do  was  to  face  the  music.  A  sturdier  feeling  rose 


30          SOME  OP  US  ARE  MARRIED 

in  him  with  the  effort.  After  all,  there  was  nothing 
so  terrible  in  giving  up  what  you  couldn't  afford;  it 
was  that  sneaking  effort  to  do  it  at  all  costs  that  really 
shamed  you,  the  keeping  up  to  a  false  ideal.  The 
household  must  take  its  cue  from  him  now,  there  was 
no  other  way.  Rill,  bless  her,  would  be  happy  in  any 
case.  Jess  would  know  how  he  felt  about  it,  he  could 
see  her  heroically  seconding  him,  as  ever.  They 
would  just  have  to  slip  into  town  quietly,  without 
any  fuss,  just  themselves,  and — oh,  heavens,  all  the 
Wotherspoon  family!  Why,  oh,  why,  wasn't  it 
possible  to  cut  loose  from  people  at  such  a  time? 
"What  was  it  in  a  wedding  that  was  so  inextricably 
entangling  and  bedevilling?  Well,  the  Wother- 
spoons  were  sensible  people,  after  all;  you  made 
bogies  in  your  mind  of  things,  and  when  you  met 
them  fairly  they  turned  out  to  be  nothing  at  all. 
And  good  old  Uncle  El,  and  the  rest,  who  were  mak- 
ing the  warm-hearted  effort  to  do  him  honour  by 
rallying  to  him  and  his  on  this  supposedly  festive 
occasion,  they  would  just  have  to  be  told  with  all 
expressions  of  regret — even  though  he  winced  anew 
at  the  thought  of  that  concrete  ill,  undying  snubbed 
family  feeling — that  there  was, to  be  no  smallest  fes- 
tive occasion  for  them. 

There  was  a  relief  in  coming  to  a  flat  decision. 
He  felt  himself  a  man  again.  Long  after  midnight, 
lying  hungrily  awake  with  a  brain  burningly  alive, 
he  took  out  the  little  bundle  of  cookies  to  eat  one, 
turning  the  packet  over  in  his  hand  first  and  looking 
at  it.  It  was  like  Aunt  Kit  to  treat  them  .all  still 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   31 

as  if  they  were  children.  As  he  opened  the  package 
he  saw  that  next  the  cookies  was  a  letter  from  Marthe; 
he  knew  her  sloping  handwriting  well.  He  turned 
on  the  light  in  his  berth  and  read: 

DEAR  BENJIE:  Aunt  Kit  wanted  Che  one  who  came 
from  the  farthest  away  to  her  funeral  to  have  a  little  gift 
for  a  surprise  put  in  with  his  cookies,  to  show  that  she 
appreciated  his  coming.  She  couldn't  give  to  all;  I  know 
she  would  have  been  glad  you  were  the  one  to  get  it.  She 
had  it  put  to  my  credit  before  she  died,  with  the  money  for 
the  funeral  expenses,  so  there  wouldn't  be  any  fuss  or  de- 
lay. I  was  to  say  that  it  went  with  her  love,  and  she 
hoped  it  would  come  in  real  handy,  and  that  she  would 
feel  that  you  could  have  a  good  time  with  some  of  it. 
Your  loving  cousin,  MARTHE. 

Ben  Bromley  sat  up  straight,  staring  with  dilated 
eyes.  Inside  was  a  check  for  a  thousand  dollars. 
"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  not  irreverently. 

"I'd  like  to  send  fifty  to  Belle." 

Mr.  Bromley  had  telegraphed,  with  the  dawn,  tc. 
his  wife  to  meet  him  in  town  for  breakfast.  Sitting 
there  on  either  side  of  the  little  table  spread  with 
coffee  and  bacon  and  rolls,  with  the  breeze  blowing 
through  the  open  window,  they  felt  that  this  un- 
accustomed morning  repast  had  almost  a  bridal 
flavour  about  it.  Jess  had  on  a  white  suit  and  a 
flowered  hat;  the  colour  in  her  face  had  been  charm- 
ingly corning  and  going  during  this  vivid  recital, 
and  the  consequent  portioning  out  of  the  astounding 


32  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

legacy — so  much  for  the  "good  time,"  so  much  to 
be  put  away. 

"And  I'd  love  to  send  it  to  Belle,"  she  responded 
quickly.  Both,  in  a  moment's  glance  as  they  looked 
at  each  other,  saw  the  figure  of  their  little  Rill,  robed 
and  veiled  in  white  and  followed  by  her  maidens, 
descending  the  green-twined  stairway  among  the 
loving,  familiar  company  of  well-wishers.  Father's 
credit  had  been  redeemed  miraculously — he  was 
little-Johnny-on-the-spot  for  his  child,  after  all. 

"It  means  a  lot  to  me  to  have  the  folks  come  on." 
he  said  soberly,  "to  be  the  one  to  bring  the  family  to- 
gether this  time.  Get  Rill  all  she  needs,  and  be  sure 
and  don't  stint  yourself,  dear,  out  of  the  amount; 
but  make  it  just  a  plain,  old-fashioned  wedding,  Jess," 
he  warned  her.  "There's  all  the  more  reason  now 
for  going  carefully  with  what  we  have.  My,  I'll 
be  glad  when  all  this  is  over  and  we  can  go  back  to 
ordinary  living  again!  Give  everyone  plenty  to 
eat,  that's  the  main  thing;  but  make  the  rest  just  as 
simple  as  you  can;  that  is,  if  a  wedding  ever  can  be 
simple!" 

"Indeed  I  will,  dear,"  she  assured  him  eagerly. 
"I  have  been  thinking — there  are  lots  of  things  we 
don't  really  need,  Alice's  sash  for  instance;  she  can 
get  along  quite  well  enough  with  a  new  hair  ribbon." 

Ben  grinned  involuntarily.  Jess,  whose  imagina- 
tion soared  untrammelled  as  to  purchase  if  there 
were  no  funds,  always  became  paringly  economical 
when  the  money  was  in  hand. 

"Ah,  get  Alice  her  sash!"  he  pleaded.     There  was 


THE  PURVEYOR  OF  THE  FUNDS   33 

an  unconscious  reinforcement  in  the  swift  thought 
that  the  seven-year-old  Alice  couldn't  have  a  wedding 
for  at  least  twelve  years. 

He  put  his  hand  fondly  over  his  wife's  as  it  lay  on 
the  table,  when  the  waiter's  back  was  turned;  his 
long,  thin  face  took  on  an  expression  of  tenderness  as 
he  met  her  pretty  eyes,  he  had  been  indescribably 
touched  by  her  ready  acquiescence  in  giving  to  Belle 
— but  that  was  just  Jess  every  time. 

"I'll  never  forget  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I'd 
have  stayed  at  home,  after  all,"  he  said.  "Even  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  blessed  trick  she  played  on  us — 
and  of  course  it  might  have  been  Joe,  from  Boston, 
or  Min,  or  Boardman  Skank  (horrible  thought !)  who 
got  this  money — I'll  tell  you  one  thing:  I'd  always  be 
mighty  glad  I  went  to  Aunt  Kit's  funeral!" 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA 

I  DON'T  see  why  you  can't  go  to  the  wedding,  Mar- 
iana, so  long  as  it's  in  the  church,  even  if  you're 
not  invited;  you  can  sit  in  the  last  pew.  Your 
Aunt  Lucy  and  I  used  to  go  to  all  the  church  wed- 
dings when  we  were  girls." 

"Oh,  Mother,  nobody  does  that  sort  of  thing  now!" 
Mariana,  with  her  arms  upraised,  was  putting  on  her 
hat  before  the  glass. 

"Well,  I  think  these  war  weddings  are  terrible!" 
Mrs.  Gillies's  light  blue  eyes  took  on  a  tragic  ex- 
pression; they  always  had  a  certain  veiled,  distressed 
look,  which  appealed  to  the  innate  chivalry  of  men, 
but  was  not  so  winning  to  women,  who  usually  felt 
that  they  had  something  to  look  distressed  over,  also, 
if  they  wanted  to. 

"How  Mrs.  Porter  can  let  her  daughter  marry  a 
man  who  may  go  off  next  week  to  be  killed  passes  my 
comprehension;  though  I  do  think  they  might  have 
asked  you  to  the  church!  I'm  sure  you've  been  to 
all  the  Red  Cross  meetings.  I  think  it's  very  strange 
— it's  over  six  weeks  since  we  came  here,  and  we 
hardly  know  anybody.  If  you  only  had  a  different 
manner  to  people,  yourself — but  you  hang  back  so. 
If- 

"Oh,  Mother,  everyone  is  too  busy  with  all  this 

34 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          35 

war  work  to  think  of  us;  you  know  that.  Half  the 
girls  go  into  town  every  day."  She  stooped  over  to 
kiss  her  mother.  "Now  I'm  off!" 

Mrs.  Gillies  sighed  as  she  watched  her  daughter 
down  the  street.  The  mother  knew  how  dear  and 
funny  and  loving  her  child  was,  and  how  utterly 
adorable  she  could  look  in  appropriate  garb;  but  even 
her  fiercely  maternal  soul  couldn't  but  acknowledge 
that  slim  Mariana  in  a  khaki  skirt,  a  shapeless  brown 
sweater,  and  a  black  scoop  hat  that  covered  all  her 
sweet,  curly  brown  hair  and  cut  off  half  her  lovely, 
delicate  face,  would  never  attract  a  second  look  from 
any  one;  she  hadn't  the  brilliant  colour  which  made 
her  ten-year-old  sister,  Filomena,  noticeable. 

Mrs.  Gillies  had  come  with  her  two  daughters  from 
their  home  town  in  Ohio — after  the  fifteen-year-old 
Jack  had  been  happily  disposed  of  in  a  boy's  camp — 
with  all  the  glow  of  anticipation  of  a  delightfully 
social  life  in  the  new  environment,  during  the  months 
in  which  the  furnished  house  of  an  old  and  wealthy 
friend,  Mrs.  Iverson,  had  been  put  at  their  disposal 
while  she  and  her  husband  were  deeply  engaged 
in  Y.M.C.A.  work  in  France.  Their  son  Leslie  was 
in  a  far-off  Southern  camp,  with  his  young  wife  and 
child  near  him.  With  the  Iversons'  prestige  as  in- 
troduction, and  the  town  an  outlying  suburb,  only 
thirty-five  miles  from  a  training  camp,  Mrs.  Gillies 
felt  that  here,  at  last,  would  be  a  real  opening  for 
Mariana;  the  mother  cherished  impassioned  dreams 
of  her  child  surrounded  by  adorers,  with  all  the 
other  girls  eagerly  courting  her  society.  It  wasn't 


36          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

that  she  wanted  Mariana  to  marry,  that  was  far 
from  her  mind  indeed;  but  as  a  truly  American 
mother  she  passionately  wanted  the  girl  to  Have 
a  Good  Time.  She  hadn't  married  very  early  her- 
self; but  she  had  enjoyed  her  girlhood  to  the  full,  as 
Mariana  had  never  had  the  chance  to  do.  Her 
father's  death,  Mrs.  Gillies's  long  illness,  the  changed 
conditions  of  their  finances  and  those  made  by  the 
war  in  their  home  town,  with  all  the  young  men 
leaving  it,  had  been  answerable  for  Mariana's  lack. 

Summer  people  in  a  suburb  are,  after  all,  only 
summer  people,  gone  before  the  inhabitants  realize 
their  presence.  The  elderly  Mr.  and  Mrs  Iverson, 
though  citizens  of  weight,  had  represented  no  social 
centre.  But  apart  from  that,  the  whole  place  was 
given  up  to  the  thought  and  furtherance  of  the  war. 
Mariana — her  mother  wasn't  yet  strong  enough — 
made  surgical  dressings  at  the  Red  Cross  meetings, 
and  helped  a  couple  of  times  at  a  canteen  in  a  neigh- 
bouring town  frequented  by  the  soldiers  from  the 
camps.  The  girls  whom  she  met  were  pleasant  and 
civil  enough,  but  no  one  made  any  particular  over- 
tures. Mrs.  Gillies,  unfortunately,  had  nobody  "in 
the  war,"  and  took  interest  in  it  only  under  protest, 
as  Something  that  interfered  with  Everything. 

She  had  taken  the  unwilling  Mariana  on  a  too- 
expensive  automobile  trip  to  the  training  camp, 
only  to  see  an  array  of  tin-roofed  barracks  and  a 
few  khaki-clad  soldiers  straying  around! 

But  this  military  wedding,  with  all  the  ring  and  stir 
of  it  in  the  air,  had  brought  matters  to  a  climax  as 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          37 

showing  the  futility  of  expecting  any  opening  for 
Mariana  here.  Bravely  as  she  bore  her  exclusion, 
the  girl  was,  the  mother  knew,  lonely. 

The  tears  came  in  Mrs.  Gillies's  eyes,  thinking  of  all 
this,  as  she  sat  on  the  piazza  later  in  a  fresh  muslin 
dress,  with  her  fair  hair  prettily  waved;  Mrs.  Gillies 
always  got  herself  up  becomingly. 

The  carpenters  were  hammering  away  in  a  near-by 
house,  the  town  seemed  to  be  full  of  subdued  stir; 
there  was  to  be  a  local  parade  for  the  Red  Cross 
Drive  in  the  evening.  Boy  scouts  were  already  pass- 
ing. The  people  were  also  beginning  to  appear  from 
the  wedding  reception,  in  couples  and  groups,  eagerly 
conversational . 

Mrs.  Gillies  rose  as  three  women  unexpectedly 
came  up  the  steps,  the  older  one — purple-gowned, 
stout,  gray-haired,  and  fine-looking — she  knew  as 
Mrs.  Brentwood,  with  whom  she  had  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Mrs.  Brentwood  pleas- 
antly. "This  is  Miss  Wills,  Mrs.  Gillies"— she 
indicated  a  tall,  angular  lady — "and  Mrs.  Chandor." 
Mrs.  Chandor,  charmingly  arrayed,  was  pretty  and 
gentle-eyed;  her  smile  was  warming.  "We  really 
must  apologize  for  not  having  called  on  you  before, 
Mrs.  Gillies,  but  you  know  yourself  just  how  busy 
everyone  is  these  war  times.  We  just  stopped  now 
to  see  if  you  would  like  to  contribute  something  to 
our  Red  Cross  Drive  to-day." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Gillies  brightly.  "  Won't 
you  please  sit  down  here  while  I  go  in  for  my  pocket- 


38 

book?  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  with  this  screen  door, 
the  bolt  has  slipped  again — I  never  saw  a  house  with 
so  many  bolts  and  catches  on  everything!" 

"Mr.  Iverson  was  very  much  afraid  of  burglars,'* 
explained  Mrs.  Brentwood. 

Mrs.  Gillies  hastened  back  to  draw  her  chair  up 
to  the  politely  waiting  group. 

"I  can  only  give  a  dollar,  but  I  know  that  my 
daughter  will  be  very  glad  to  contribute  her  little 
share  if  you  can  wait  a  few  minutes;  she  will  be  home 
directly." 

Mrs.  Brentwood  smiled  assentingly.  "Why,  cer- 
tainly. Thank  you  so  much  for  your  donation. 
We've  just  come  from  such  a  lovely  wedding;  you've 
heard  about  it,  of  course — only  intimate  friends  were 
invited.  Kitty  was  a  dream,  and  Captain  Hike,  he 
isn't  exactly  what  you'd  call  handsome — but  he  has 
such  a  fine,  resolute  expression.  He  expects  that 
the  regiment  will  be  sent  over  next  week.  The  best 
man,  that  young  Lieutenant  Blackmore,  is  handsome, 
but  he  is  so  shy  he  couldn't  seem  to  talk  at  all.  He's 
staying  to-night  with  the  Prices." 

'*  Those  shy  young  men  sometimes  come  out  quite 
surprisingly,"  suggested  Mrs.  Chandor. 

"I  think  these  war  weddings  are  terrible!"  ex- 
ploded Mrs.  Giles.  "If  he  goes  to  the  front  she  may 
never  see  him  again." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chandor.  "There's 
something  big  back  of  it  all,  now,  it  isn't  just  a  matter 
of  new  silver  and  mahogany  and  Living  Happy  Ever 
After;  Kitty  and  her  captain  will  belong  to  each  other 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          39 

no  matter  what  happens.  They'll  have  had  that, 
anyway." 

There  was  a  silence.  Then,  "My  nephew's  in 
the  war,"  said  Miss  Wills,  rising.  "The  dearest 
boy !  He  is  only  a  private,  but  he  writes  the  cheeriest 
letters  from  Over  There.  We  must  be  going.  I've 
got  to  stop  and  see  about  that  poor  girl  with  the  sick 
baby — her  husband  is  wounded." 

Not  a  word  about  Mariana!  Or  herself  either,  for 
that  matter.  Mrs.  Gillies  watched  her  visitors  de- 
part with  a  feeling  of  bitterness.  But  hope  revived 
as  the  Price  girls  passed  with  that  Lieutenant  Black- 
more.  They  would  certainly  meet  Mariana!  One 
of  the  girls  would  stop  and  speak  to  Mariana,  and — 
what  more  natural? — ask  her  to  join  them  for  the 
evening. 

Mariana's  slight  figure  was  already  coming  up  the 
path. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Gillies  eagerly. 

"Well,"  responded  the  daughter.  "I've  been 
reading  at  the  library." 

"Didn't  you  meet  the  Price  girls  with  that  officer?" 

"Yes.     What  of  it?" 

"Didn't  they  ask  you  to  come  with  them  to- 
night?" 

"  WTiy,  Mother!  No,  of  course  not.  They  hardly 
know  me  at  all,  they  just  bowed  and  passed  on." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  places !  I  never  saw  such  people." 
Mrs.  Gillies  was  fairly  trembling  with  agitation. 
"Nobody  cares  here  whether  you  live  or  die!  But 
I  suppose  you  hardly  looked  at  those  girls  yourself, 


40  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Mariana.  You  have  such  a  strange  manner  some- 
times. .  .  If  you  would  only  wear  your  hair  a  little 
looser;  but  you  won't  even  put  on  your  pink  hat." 

"Oh,  Mother!"  flared  Mariana.  Then  her  tone 
changed.  "Here,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  get  so 
excited;  you'll  be  sick  again.  Now  smile  at  me!  .  .  . 
Mother,  you're  a  perfect  infant  about  some  things — 
it's  time  you  grew  up!  Why  should  anybody  think 
of  us?  They're  occupied  with  far  more  important 
things." 

"I  think  this  war  is  terrible!"  moaned  Mrs.  Gillies. 

"  Mother,  I  made  up  my  mind  while  I  was  out.  I'm 
going  to  call  up  Cousin  Kate  to-night,  and  get  her  to 
come  and  stay  with  you  for  a  week  while  I  go  off  and 
try  to  get  a  war  job  in  town  like  the  other  girls." 

"Oh,  Mariana!  I  can't  stand  Counsin  Kate,  she 
fusses  over  me  so. " 

"  You  need  to  be  fussed  over.  I'm  going  in  to  town 
to  see  that  nice  old  Miss  Crossley  who  has  the  welfare 
diet  kitchen;  perhaps  she'll  let  me  help  her  for  a  few 
days." 

"Oh,  Mariana!  In  a  kitchen!  I  think  it's  terrible. " 
Mrs.  Gillies's  voice  faltered,  and  then  took  another 
sharper  tone  of  woe,  as  Filomena  appeared,  indescrib- 
ably dirty  as  to  her  chubby  cheeks,  hands,  knees,  and 
raiment. 

"Filomena!  How  did  you  ever  get  yourself  look- 
ing like  that?  And  all  those  people  passing!  What 
will  they  think  of  us?" 

She  called  to  her  older  daughter,  already  half  way 
up  the  stairs. 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          41 

"Mariana!  Mariana!  Please  give  Filomena  a 
bath,  and  change  all  her  clothes;  she  looks  perfectly 
terrible!  Oh,  my  goodness,  what  I  go  through  with 
my  children!" 

II 

MARIANA,  on  the  floor  above,  after  the  regenera- 
tion of  Filomena,  sat  by  her  dressing  table  brushing 
out  her  hair.  Mariana  had  lovely  hair — it  had  a 
vitality  of  its  own,  springing  out  into  wide,  goldy 
waves  where  the  brush  touched  it;  her  mother's 
anguish  at  its  concealment  was  pardonable.  It 
seemed  to  caress  her  milky  white  neck  and  the  bare 
arms  from  which  the  kimono  sleeves  fell  back.  Her 
little  bare  feet  were  thrust  into  straw  sandals,  pre- 
paratory to  changing  to  white  stockings  and  slippers. 

The  sisters,  despite  the  difference  in  their  ages,  had 
held  not  unsympathetic  converse;  Mariana  had 
laughed  at  the  younger's  account  of  slipping  off  the 
curb  into  the  newly  oiled  dust  of  the  street — and  being 
picked  up  by  a  "perfikly  splendid"  young  officer,  the 
best  man  at  the  wedding,  who  was  crossing  over 
with  the  Price  girls.  "He  had  the  nicest  mouth. 
I  wouldn't  have  minded  a  bit  if  he'd  kissed  me  when 
he  thought  I  was  hurted,  but  he  didn't,  he  only 
smiled — he  had  sparkly  eyes — and  said,  'Run  home, 
little  one'." 

As  Mariana  finished  brushing  her  hair,  she  made 
her  plans.  The  big  room  was  touched  with  the 
shadows  of  the  late  summer  afternoon;  the  intermit- 
tent sound  of  preparatory  drums  came  through  the 


42  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

window.  Not  being  asked  to  the  wedding  had  made 
her  realize  afresh  how  "out  of  it  all"  she  was.  No 
one  knew  how  lonely  she  had  been !  But  poor  Mother 
must  have  a  rest  from  agonizing  about  her  for  awhile. 
She  would  come  home  each  night,  of  course. 

It  gave  her  a  queer  sense  of  hitherto  unknown 
power  to  think  she  could  do  anything  "on  her  own." 
She  had  heard  once  that  if  you  really  had  the  will  to 
strike  out  in  a  new  path,  a  way  would  be  opened 
for  you,  even  if  it  were  not  the  one  you  had  sought — 
it  was  the  effort  itself  that  counted.  "I'll  get  my 
suitcase  out  of  the  attic  now,"  she  decided,  with  a 
quick  clinching  of  her  purpose,  and  ran  up  the  stairs. 

The  sky-lighted  garret  was  piled  high  with  heavy 
old  furniture  and  trunks,  only  a  small  space  at  the 
end  under  the  rafters  being  left  for  the  extra  belong- 
ings of  the  tenants;  the  bags  had  been  placed  by  a 
tidy  maid  on  the  high,  narrow  shelf  of  a  small,  shallow 
closet  built  in  between  the  chimney  and  the  side  of 
the  house,  and  evidently  intended  for  valuables  by 
the  burglar-fearing  Mr.  Iverson;  the  extremely  heavy, 
thick  door,  which  stood  open,  had  iron  bars  across 
the  inner  side. 

As  Mariana  dashed  in,  her  arm  upraised  for  her 
suitcase,  she  felt  the  flying  end  of  her  kimono  catch 
in  something,  and  gave  it  a  quick  tug,  without  look- 
ing around;  the  next  instant,  with  the  sound  of  a 
slight  metallic  click,  she  was  enveloped  in  pitch  dark- 
ness. She  had  pulled  the  door,  with  its  burglar- 
proof  combination  lock,  fast  shut. 

Mariana's  fingers  groped  wildly  to  find  a  knob — 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          43 

but  there  was  none.  There  wasn't,  of  course,  even 
a  keyhole.  The  edges  of  the  door  fitted  so  tightly 
to  the  sides  and  the  bottom  that  one  couldn't  find 
where  they  were.  She  pounded  frantically  on  it  and 
called  as  loudly  as  she  could;  somebody,  of  course, 
would  hear  her  in  a  few  minutes.  She  bruised  her 
soft  hands  against  the  iron  bars;  after  long,  panting 
pauses  to  rest,  perforce,  she  pounded  and  screamed 
again.  .  .  Everybody  must  be  out.  .  .  Mariana 
began  to  feel  sick  and  dizzy.  .  .  She  wondered 
how  long  the  air  would  last  in  there — but  probably 
that  was  all  right.  Why  was  it  that  no  one  would 
hear  her? 

Downstairs,  Mrs.  Gillies  had  been  happily  enter- 
tained by  Filomena,  who,  having  hung  outside  the 
church  with  the  other  children,  proved  a  mine  of  in- 
formation regarding  the  wedding  party  and  guests. 
It  was  an  hour  only  slightly  marred  by  the  renewed 
knocking  of  those  carpenters  somewhere — so  late, 
too! 

"Yes,  Mandy,"  as  the  coloured  maid  appeared  in 
the  doorway,  "we're  coming.  Mariana!"  she  called 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  "dinner's  ready." 

The  meal  progressed  with  no  sign  of  the  missing 
one.  Filomena,  going  upstairs  finally  for  her  best 
Teddy  bear,  let  out  her  voice  in  a  shriek. 

"Mother,  come  here!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mrs.  Gillies  almost  flew  to 
the  scene. 

"I  don't  know  where  Mariana  is!  Look  here — 
there's  her  hat  and  sweater,  and  her  dress  laid  o>it  on 


44  SOME  OP  US  ARE  MARRIED 

the  bed,  and  her  brown  shoes  and  her  white  slippers 
on  the  floor.  She  isn't  taking  a  bath,  for  I  looked." 

"Oh,  my  goodness!  The  Germans  have  got  her!" 
moaned  Mrs.  Gillies.  She  clutched  a  chair  to  stay 
her  trembling  limbs. 

"Mother!  how  could  they?"  Filomena  gasped; 
perhaps  Mother  was  right. 

"Don't  ask  me  how  they  do  anything!  They're 
too  terrible  for  words."  She  suddenly  heard  some- 
thing from  above.  "That  noise — it  can't  be  the 
carpenters  now;  it  seems  to  come  from  our  attic!" 
She  flew  down  the  hall  and  up  the  steep  back  stairs. 
"Mariana,  my  darling,  are  you  here?" 

Mariana's  voice  carried  with  an  effort  through  the 
thick  door. 

"Yes,  dear;  yes,  my  darling  child!  Mother's  here 
with  you.  Everything  will  be  all  right.  Mrs. 
Chandor  has  a  paper  with  the  combination  written 
down.  Mrs.  Iverson  wrote  me  that  she  left  it  with 
her." 

Mrs.  Gillies  hurtled  down  to  the  telephone. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Chandor,  we're  in  trouble — my  daugh- 
ter Mariana  is  locked  in  that  closet  in  the  attic — the 
one  with  the  iron  door!  If  you'll  look  up  that  lock 

combination  that  Mrs.  Iverson  gave  you  to  keep 

Oh,  thank  you!" 

It  was  only  fifteen  minutes,  though  it  seemed  as  an 
hour,  before  she  ran  to  the  door  to  meet  the  footsteps 
hurrying  up  the  walk.  But  it  was  the  slim,  dark- 
eyed  Mrs.  Bannard  instead  of  Mrs.  Chandor. 

"Mrs.  Chandor  is  looking  for  the  paper,"  the  vis- 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          45 

itor  announced  breathlessly.  "She  just  telephoned 
me  to  come  to  you.  She's  afraid  her  boy  took  it  to 
cut  up  into  ships  when  he  was  sick  last  week.  But 
Miss  Mariana  is  going  to  be  all  right;  you  mustn't 
worry  a  minute!  I  called  up  Mrs.  Roberts — here 
she  is  now — her  cat  was  locked  in  that  closet  once. 
Mrs.  Roberts,  Mrs.  Gillies.  We  went  to  the  lock- 
smith, but  he  is  in  the  parade  to-night." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Gillies  helplessly. 
"There's  the  telephone." 

"I'll  answer  it;  you  sit  down  here,"  said  Lucia 
Bannard. 

Agonized  telephoning  from  Mrs.  Chandor  clinched 
the  fact  that  the  paper  with  the  combination  couldn't 
be  found.  Hardly  was  the  receiver  hung  up,  when 
it  rang  again — this  time  it  was  to  say  that  Mrs. 
Paxton,  who  had  been  telephoned  to,  would  find  a 
Man  with  an  Axe.  Hope  revived  in  Mrs.  Gillies' 
breast. 

Soon  Mrs.  Paxton  arrived,  piloting  the  axe-bearer 
himself,  a  quite  splendid  young  fellow  in  his  officer's 
uniform  of  olive  drab. 

"This  is  Lieutenant  Blackmore,  Mrs.  Gillies,"  said 
Mrs.  Paxton. 

"Is  it  the  little  lady  I  picked  out  of  the  mud  to-day 
who  is  the  prisoner?" 

"No,  it's  her  sister,  Mariana,"  said  Mrs.  Gillies 
weakly,  gazing  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  Mariana!"  said  the  lieutenant,  as  if  he  had 
always  known  her.  "I'll  bring  the  child  down  to 
you  in  a  jiffy.  This  the  way ?  " 


46  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

He  went  loping  up  the  stairs.  Those  below  could 
hear  him  tramping  down  the  attic  to  where  Lucia  and 
Filomena  were  keeping  guard. 

"We  haven't  heard  a  sound  in  there  for  the  last 
ten  minutes,"  said  Lucia.  "She  must  have  fainted 
.  .  .  Mariana!" 

There  was  no  answer. 

Lieutenant  Blackmore  was  examining  the  door;  he 
shook  his  head.  "No  good  to  try  to  chop  into  this." 

He  stepped  back  to  take  a  view  of  the  surroundings 
and  then  whistled  softly. 

"Well,  if  this  isn't  just  like  the  fool  things  people 
do — build  an  iron  safe  in  an  attic,  with  nothing  but 
rafters  above!  It'll  be  as  easy  as  cutting  cheese. 
How  do  you  get  on  the  roof  from  here?  Oh,  down 
at  the  other  end — I  see!"  He  was  stalking  off,  and 
then  came  back  hurriedly  to  say: 

"I  think  you'd  better  both  go  down  to  the  mother; 
tell  her  not  to  get  frightened  when  she  hears  a  noise 
— I'll  sure  have  little  Mariana  with  her  in  a  few 
minutes  now." 

"Very  well,"  said  Lucia. 

As  Lucia  and  Filomena  disappeared,  Lieutenant 
Blackmore,  the  axe  over  his  shoulder,  mounted  the 
ladder  and  lifted  the  skylight.  Another  instant  and 
he  was  on  the  roof  in  the  brilliant  moonlight.  It 
was  flat  where  he  was,  with  the  chimney  at  the  slope 
of  the  eaves.  For  a  moment  he  stood  still,  the  breeze 
lifting  the  loose  locks  on  his  forehead.  From  the 
distance  came  the  sound  of  shouts  and  cheers 
mingled  with  the  notes  of  the  band;  the  procession 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          47 

was  on  its  way.  He  suddenly  saw  himself  where  he 
so  ardently  hoped  to  be  going,  Over  There,  in 
another  week.  He  was  glad — yet  with  a  pang, 
quickly  suppressed — that  there  was  no  one  belong- 
ing to  him  to  care.  Then  his  eye  located  the  exact 
spot  he  had  marked  from  below.  He  planted  his 
feet  firmly,  with  his  back  to  the  chimney,  and  plunged 
the  axe  into  the  shingles ;  ripped  one  off,  and  then  an- 
other— they  fell  with  a  clatter  to  the  ground  below. 
He  was  a  little  too  much  at  one  side. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  little  Mariana!"  he  called 
cheerfully;  but  there  was  no  sound  from  within.  An- 
other ripping  and  tearing,  and  the  moonlight  poured 
down  upon  her. 

She  lay  there,  a  wonder,  white  as  pearl,  her  eyes 
closed,  her  curling  hair  spread  out  around  her  bare 
neck,  her  soft  arms  stretched  out  straight  at  her  side, 
her  little  bare  feet  crossed.  She  was  so  beautiful, 
and  so  different  from  the  child  he  had  expected  to 
see,  that  he  turned  dizzy  and  breathless  from  the 
shock.  Then  he  let  himself  down  cautiously  into 
the  narrow  space  and  bent  over  her. 

The  rush  of  incoming  air  revived  her;  she  opened 
her  lovely  eyes  and  smiled  into  his  dark  ones. 
How  long  does  it  take  for  people  really  to  know  each 
other?     Some   have   lived   through   long   years  of 
married  life,  strangers  always. 

It  might  be  only  for  a  brief  moment  that  the  eyes 
of  these  two  met,  but  in  it  they  were  removed  from 
time  and  space,  so  that  each  could  see  distinctly  the 
soul  of  the  other 


48  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Then  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

She  whispered  something,  and  he  put  his  cheek 
against  hers  to  listen,  for  there  was  the  noise  of  run- 
ning up  to  the  attic  within.  He  barely  heard  her 
breathe : 

"Have  you  really  come?" 

"Oh,  you  bet  I  have!"  he  whispered,  and  called 
out  very  loud:  "Don't  come  up  on  the  roof,  any  of 
you!  Stay  away  from  the  ladder.  I'm  bringing  her 
down;  she's  all  right." 

On  the  roof  all  the  world  was  nothing  but  moon- 
light, and  they  two  a  part  of  the  moonlight  between 
earth  and  heaven.  Mariana's  eyes  were  closed  once 
more  as  he  held  her  to  him. 

"You  darling,  you  darling,  you  darling!"  he  was 
murmuring — "you  darling!"  His  lips  touched  hers 
— a  wholly  indefensible  proceeding. 

It  was,  after  all,  but  the  briefest  interlude  before 
he  had  her  at  the  end  of  the  ladder,  swaying  on  her 
bare  feet,  supported  only  by  his  encircling  arm,  in  the 
midst  of  an  acclaiming  group. 

"Her  mother's  on  the  floor  below,"  said  Lucia 
Bannard.  "I'd  no  idea  the  girl  was  so  lovely  as  that 
— why,  she's  adorable!" 

"Oh,  my  darling  child!  And  in  such  a  state!  My 
darling  child,  such  a  sight!"  This,  of  course,  was 
Mrs.  Gillies's  voice. 

Lieutenant  Blackmore,  entirely  unnoticed  in  the 
intimate  reunion  of  the  mother  and  daughter,  was 
already  half  way  down  the  lower  stairs;  no  one  saw 
his  start  or  heard  the  muttered  "Gosh ! "  at  the  glimpse 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          49 

of  a  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  filled  with  people 
who  had  heard  that  the  Gillieses  Needed  Help.  He 
made  a  sudden  deflection  out  of  the  side  door  just 
as  a  further  deputation,  including  the  Price  girls, 
came  up  the  front  walk  in  the  moonlight. 

"And  I  didn't  even  thank  him!"  moaned  Mrs. 
Gillies.  There  was  a  great  buzzing  of  conversation, 
and  an  inspiring  smell  of  coffee  from  the  kitchen, 
where  Mrs.  Paxton  was  presiding. 

Mariana  herself,  in  her  best  white  silk  negligee,  her 
hair  tied  back  with  pink  ribbon,  like  a  schoolgirl, 
white  stockings  and  slippers  on  her  feet,  sat  pillowed 
back  on  the  big  davenport,  with  Edna  Price  and 
one  of  the  Gardiner  girls  on  either  side  of  her,  holding 
her  hands,  and  an  admiring  circle  drawn  up  in  front. 
Mariana  was  smiling  as  she  talked,  but  she  was  still 
pale;  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  if  she  were  not 
really  there,  even  now. 

Whenever  the  screen  door  opened,  Mariana  glanced 
up  expectantly. 

"Oh,  here  is  Elinor  Chandor  at  last!  And,  did 
you  ever — Aunt  Mary,  too!" 

"I  insisted  on  coming  with  Elinor,"  announced 
the  last  comer,  who  was  white-haired  and  stout. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Gillies. 

"I  have  brought  around  a  little  box  of  tablets," 
said  Aunt  Mary,  "prescribed  by  my  own  physician, 
which  I  have  found  very  useful  in  cases  of  shock.  I 
nearly  gave  one  to  a  young  soldier  I  met  just  around 
the  corner  by  that  empty  house — he  was  behaving  so 
oddly,  without  a  hat  and  talking  to  himself.  His 


50  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

head  was  turned  away,  and  I  distinctly  heard  him 
say:  *Why,  in  h—  (men  will  be  men,  my  dears), 
can't  they  go?  Why,  in  h —  can't  they  go?'  I 
suppose  he  had  reference  to  our  troops  being  sent  to 
France.  When  he  looked  up  I  could  see  he  wasn't 
intoxicated — he  was  a  very  handsome  boy.  I  said 
at  once,  'Are  you  suffering  from  shock?'  and  he  said, 
'I  sure  am.  Yes,  madam.'  Then  I  asked  him,  'Is  it 
painful?'  and  he  said,  'Oh,  no,  madam!'  And  then 
Elinor  came  along  and  he  jumped  back  into  the 
shadow.  The  war  does  such  strange  things  to  our 
boys,  doesn't  it?  My  dear  Miss  Gillies,  no  one  would 
think  you  had  been  imprisoned  so  long,  you  have 
such  a  lovely  colour!" 

"We  must  be  going  back,  it's  getting  late;  we  only 
came  for  a  minute  to  express  our  sympathy,"  said 
Mrs.  Chandor. 

"We  must  be  going,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Paxton. 

There  was  a  tremendous  clattering  on  the  walk; 
the  door  bell  rang.  Through  the  screen  door  one 
saw  the  moon  shining  down  on  a  company  of  Boy 
Scouts,  drawn  up,  with  the  fourteen-year-old  captain, 
straight  and  rosy-cheeked,  as  spokesman. 

"We  heard  that  you  were  in  trouble,"  he  an- 
nounced. "  They  said  there  was  a  young  lady  locked 
up  in  here,  so  we  came  to  see  if  we  could  help  get 
her  out." 

"Thank  you,  she  is  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bannard. 

"I  want  to  thank  him,  too!"  called  Mariana. 

"She's  some  pippin!"  he  announced  to  his  com- 
rades as  he  rejoined  them. 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          61 

The  company  within  hastily  followed  the  Scouts, 
with  tearful  thanks  from  Mrs.  Gillies. 

"I  never  knew  of  so  much  kindness,  never!"  she 
protested.  Lucia  Bannard  remained  behind.  But 
hardly  was  everyone  out  of  sight  when  the  sturdy 
ring  of  heavier  footsteps  was  heard  outside.  This 
time  the  pioneer  of  the  troop  was  the  big,  blue-coated 
and  helmeted  chief  of  police,  who  rang  the  bell  with 
the  formula:  "We  heard  that  you  were  in  trouble 
here,  so  we  came  to  ask  if  we  could  help." 

"Everything  is  all  right  now,"  said  Mrs.  Gillies. 
"Thank  you  so  very  much!  Please  come  in  and  let 
my  daughter  thank  you,  too." 

"And  what  was  the  girl  like?"  asked  the  man 
nearest  the  chief  of  police. 

"She  could  have  me!"  said  the  latter,  entirely  as  a 
complimentary  figure  of  speech,  he  being  the  posses- 
sor already  of  a  wife  and  five  children. 

And  hardly  had  they  departed  when  the  feet  of 
marching  men  still  once  again  broke  the  silence;  the 
Home  Guard,  on  its  way,  also,  from  the  parade,  had 
stopped  to  send  in  a  deputation  comprising  Mr. 
Brentwood,  Preston  Chandor,  Donald  Bannard, 
and  the  wealthy  Mr.  Heriot. 

"Come  right  in!"  said  Mrs.  Gillies.  "You've 
heard  that  we  were  in  trouble  and  came  to  help  us; 
such  kindness — such  goodness  from  everyone!" 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mr.  Brent- 
wood,  bending  over  Mariana  in  fatherly  wise. 

"And,  oh,  Donald!"  called  Lucia.  "I'm  going  to 
stay  for  the  night.  I'll  be  home  to  breakfast,  though." 


52  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

There  was  a  ringing  cheer  from  the  Home  Guard 
when  the  good  news  reached  them. 

It  had  grown  very  silent  in  the  room  now.  Mrs. 
Gillies  was  going  around  picking  up  things,  and  put- 
ting chairs  to  rights.  She  had  turned  out  most  of 
the  lights;  the  moonlight  streamed  in  through  the 
still  open  screen  door.  Mariana  sat  on  the  sofa, 
her  feet  touching  the  floor,  her  head  bent  a  little 
forward,  her  lips  faintly  parted;  when  her  mother 
asked: 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed  now, 
dear  child?" 

She  only  shook  her  head  and  said,  "Not  just  yet, 
Mother.  Don't  talk,  please." 

A  swift  step  came  up  the  quiet  street,  light  yet 
firm. 

Lieutenant  Blackmore  stood  outside  the  screen 
door  in  the  moonlight,  tapped  on  it  lightly,  and  strode 
down  the  hall  into  the  room,  a  gallant  figure  of  a 
young  soldier,  his  dark  eyes  deep  with  love,  his  lips — 

Mariana  rising  from  her  couch,  white  as  pearl  in 
the  moonlight,  came  forward  to  him. 

"Isn't  it  terrible,  the  way  this  war  goes  on!"  said 
Mrs.  Gillies. 

She  and  Edna  Price  were  standing  by  a  snowdrift 
though  it  was  spring  by  the  calendar. 

"Lieutenant  Blackmore's  regiment  has  really 
sailed  for  France.  Mariana  will  be  home  .to-morrow. 
I  knew  you'd  want  to  hear." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Edna. 


AN  OPENING  FOR  MARIANA          53 

Mrs.  Gillies  drew  her  cloak  around  her.  Her  small, 
delicate  face  had  lost  its  harassed  look,  her  eyes  were 
full  of  eager  light. 

"  I'm  so  glad  I  got  off  all  those  comfort  kits  for  his 
men  before  they  left  the  camp.  When  I  think  how 
I  felt  about  Mariana's  marriage — after  only  three 
days! — it  did  seem  such  a  terrible  opening  for  her — 
and  here  they've  had  all  these  months  in  the  South 
together. 

"I  must  go  in  and  see  about  the  fires.  Mrs.  Parker 
is  still  with  us.  I  wouldn't  let  her  take  the  children 
back  to  that  cold  house  yet;  Mr.  Iverson  had  laid  in 
so  much  coal.  You  have  to  do  what  you  can  for 
people  in  these  war  times,  when  they're  in  trouble. 
She  hasn't  heard  from  him  in  three  months!  When 
I  think  of  Mariana — Mariana  is  so  brave!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Edna  Price  kissed 
the  little  woman  before  the  latter  went  on: 

"Isn't  it  terrible  the  way  some  people  act  as  if  they 
didn't  want  to  think  about  the  war?  Why,  when 
you  have  any  one  in  it — I  feel  sometimes  as  if  they 
were  all  fighting  for  us,  not  far  away  at  all,  but  right 
out  here,  in  this  street — in  front  of  this  house — and 
I  just  can't  do  enough  to  help!" 


AS  LOCHINVAR 

AL  through  the  fifteen  years  of  their  married 
life  Mrs.  Laurence  had   cherished   a   secret 
longing  that  some  day  Will  would  surprise 
her  by  carrying  her  off  bodily,  as  it  were,  from  the  toil 
and  tangles  of  her  household  labours — like  a  domestic 
Lochinvar — while  she  thrilled  at  his  forcefulness. 

It  had  been  a  broiling  day.  As  she  sank  down  in 
the  big  chair  in  the  shaded  corner  of  the  piazza  after 
her  fourth  journey  to  the  cellared  ice-box  since 
dressing,  she  hoped  fervently  that  nothing  would 
disturb  her  rest  for  an  hour  or  more,  until  Will  and 
his  guest,  young  Mr.  Sains,  for  whom  the  cold 
dinner  had  been  preparing  all  day,  should  arrive 
from  the  train.  Delusively  cool  and  fresh  as  she 
looked,  in  her  white  gown  with  the  long  coral  beads 
that  contrasted  so  effectively  with  her  dark  hair,  she 
felt  both  hot  and  exhausted. 

She  had  a  somewhat  guilty  consciousness,  indeed, 
of  having  worked  with  a  foolish  intemperance — she 
had  been  on  her  feet  almost  constantly  since  she 
rose. 

It  had  been  in  direct  disregard  of  her  husband's 
advice  that  she  had  let  the  maid  off  on  her  two- 
weeks'  vacation — after  the  fourteen-year-old  Robert 
had  gone  to  camp — with  the  hazy  idea  of  having 

54 


AS  LOCHINVAR  55 

a  free,  restful  time  alone  with  Will.  She  felt  now 
that  she  had  had  no  idea  that  the  weather  would 
be  like  this,  or  of  the  place  that  ice-box  would  play 
in  the  scheme  of  things. 

And  Will,  with  the  best  intentions,  was  no  help  at 
all.  It  had  often  been  a  wonder  to  Mrs.  Laurence 
how  he  ever  achieved  the  cooking  and  dish-washing 
he  bragged  so  much  about  on  his  fishing-trips,  he  was 
so  inadequate  at  home!  Perhaps  she  was  too  cap- 
able herself  to  welcome  suggestions  from  another 
— perhaps,  also,  her  strictly  feminine  directions 
didn't  always  have  that  clarity  which  is  necessary 
for  the  enlightenment  of  the  masculine  mind. 

"Isn't  it  scorching!" 

Mrs.  Laurence  started,  and  looked  up  to  see  a 
large  woman  in  a  faded  muslin,  ironed  all  askew,  her 
black  hair  strained  with  fearful  tightness  from  her 
pleasant  face,  who  had  halted  in  passing. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Stone!     Won't  you  come  up?" 

"Thank  you,  no.  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  back. 
Pahpa  came  home  early  this  afternoon  " — Mrs.  Stone 
referred  to  her  husband,  not  her  parent — "and  I've 
been  down  to  the  village  getting  some  screws  and  a 
nut  for  the  wringer — he's  fixing  up  everything  in  the 
house;  that  man  is  such  a  comfort!  By  the  way,  I 
just  met  Mr.  Bailey,  and  he  tells  me  his  wife's  much 
better.  I  don't  think  there's  anything  the  matter  with 
her,  myself,  but  laziness,  though  they  say  he's  per- 
fectly devoted  to  her — won't  let  her  raise  her  finger 
for  a  thing.  It  was  so  hot  this  morning  that  I  washed 
out  five  white  sweaters,  ironed  Susy's  'Peter  Thomp- 


56  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

son,'  and  made  ice-cream.  I  spent  most  of  the  after- 
noon in  the  bath-tub." 

"I  wish  /  could  have,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  long- 
ingly. "Just  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  take  off  anything, 
somebody  comes  to  either  the  front  or  back  door; 
it's  simply  maddening.  Will  wanted  me  to  stay  in 
bed  this  morning — as  if  I  could!  Such  ideas  men 
have!  What  do  you  think,  only  last  night  I  asked 
him  to  leave  two  milk-tickets  out — they're  in  a  jar 
in  the  closet — and  I  found  them  on  the  kitchen  table 
this  morning.  As  I  told  him,  I  supposed,  of  course, 
that  he  knew  they  were  always  left  on  the  little  shelf 
inside  the  outer  screen  door.  I  haven't  been  able  to 
get  a  drop  of  milk  to-day,  though  I  telephoned  all 
over,  but  I  managed  with  a  little  that  was  left. 
And  after  getting  his  breakfast  ready  I  ran  upstairs 
to  finish  dressing,  and  when  I  went  down  again  he  had 
never  got  the  rolls  out  of  the  oven  at  all,  though  I 
told  him  especially  that  they  were  there — he  had 
just  looked  in  the  coal  range,  and  never  thought  of  the 
gas-oven." 

"Oh,  you  should  have  trained  him  better,"  said 
Mrs.  Stone  wisely,  as  she  went  on  her  way.  The 
helplessness  of  Mrs.  Laurence's  husband  was  a  fruit- 
ful theme  of  conversation  when  the  matrons  of  the 
neighbourhood  met,  not  for  the  stereotyped  times  of 
uplift,  but  for  those  confidential  moments  when  you 
talked  about  what  really  interested  you.  It  was 
considered  that  Mrs.  Laurence  was  allowed  to  live 
entirely  too  much  on  her  nervous  energy. 

The  latter  now  languidly  watched  the  form  of  her 


AS  LOCHINVAR  57 

neighbour  as  she  went  down  the  shaded  street.  The 
next  instant  Mrs.  Laurence  had  dragged  herself  to  her 
feet  in  horrified  consternation.  Up  the  short  path 
to  the  house  came  a  very  old,  little,  black-bonneted 
lady,  supported  by  a  large  and  florid  middle-aged  one, 
who  carried  a  suitcase — her  wide,  pink-flowered  hat 
rakishly  askew  over  her  anxious  countenance.  The 
former  was  the  oldest  member  of  the  Laurence  family, 
whose  advent  was  usually  heralded  weeks  before  and 
to  whom  the  highest  consideration  was  due. 

"Why,  Aunt  Neely!  and  Cornelia  too,  on  such  a 
day!  You  must  be  nearly  dead." 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  groaned  the  one  designated 
as  Cornelia,  assisting  her  parent  up  on  the  porch  and 
into  the  chair  Mrs.  Lawrence  hastily  brought  forward, 
sinking  down  wearily  herself  on  the  top  step,  as  one 
who  has  not  strength  to  go  farther. 

"Mother  would  come!  She  set  her  mind  on  seeing 
Will.  I  don't  know  how  I  ever  got  her  here,  I 
knew  from  the  beginning  what  it  would  be  like. 
I've  got  to  put  her  to  bed  at  once.  Mother,  don't 
you  try  to  talk.  Even  the  janitor  said  to  her:  *Mrs. 
Higbee,  up  here  in  this  nice  cool  flat  with  the  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  river,  you  don't  realize  what  it 
is  down  on  the  pavements,  let  alone  the  hot  country, 
all  cooped  up  in  trees ! '  But  you  know  what  Mother 
is;  nobody  can  stop  her  when  she  makes  up  her 
mind."  Miss  Cornelia's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with 
tears.  "She  hasn't  any  consideration  for  me  at  all, 
not  the  least  bit.  She  never  thinks  of  the  anxiety 
she  causes  me." 


58  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"You  are  all  worn  out,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  com- 
passionately, with  an  anxious  glance  at  the  little 
old  lady,  who  lay  back  in  her  chair,  motionless,  yet 
with  eyes  that  winked  a  sly,  indomitable  suggestion 
from  her  wrinkled  face. 

"I'm  so  sorry  you  feel  ill,  Aunt  Neely." 

"She  doesn't  hear  you.  I  had  no  idea  that  we 
would  have  to  walk  from  the  station.  Of  course,  in 
town,  there  are  so  many  ways  of  riding.  I  think  if 
I  can  get  her  to  bed,  dear,  and  keep  her  on  a  milk 
diet — a  glass  every  two  hours— she'll  get  straightened 
out  by  morning.  I'm  sorry  to  be  such  a  trouble." 

"Oh,  no  trouble  at  all!"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  earn- 
estly. "I'll  go  and  get  things  ready  for  you.  I 
haven't  any  maid  at  present — but  it's  no  trouble!" 
She  would  have  been  disgraced  in  her  own  eyes,  as 
well  as  in  those  of  Will's  family,  if  anything  for  Aunt 
Neely's  comfort  were  neglected. 

When  the  visitors,  after  much  fetching  and  carry- 
ing and  toiling  up  and  down  stairs,  were  finally 
settled  in  their  room,  fortunately  got  ready  for  Mr. 
Sains,  Aunt  Neely  safely  in  bed,  bolstered  up  high 
with  pillows,  and  Corny  in  airy  negligee  beside  her 
waving  a  large  palm-leaf  fan  in  her  fat,  bare  arms, 
Mrs.  Laurence  made  her  way  laboriously  ccllarward 
for  the  initial  glass  of  milk.  "With  fresh  sinking  of 
the  heart  she  realized  that  there  was  none.  She  had 
an  indirect  foreboding  of  calamity,  as  if  her  future 
fate  were  inextricably  tangled  in  this  shortage — but 
she  caught  up  a  pitcher,  and  ran  breathlessly  out 


AS  LOCHINVAR  59 

of  the  house  down  the  back  way  past  half  a  dozen 
summer-closed  homes,  to  where  Mrs.  Stone  stood  in 
her  garden,  picking  green  tomatoes,  while  the  sound 
of  Mr.  Stone's  industrious  hammering  came  from 
within. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Stone!  Could  you  possibly  spare  me  a 
little  milk?  My  husband's  aunt,  a  very  old  lady,  has 
just  come  out  unexpectedly  from  town,  and  the  jour- 
ney has  upset  her." 

"I  should  think  it  would,"  said  Mrs.  Stone  coldly, 
straightening  herself  up.  The  Ridge,  as  a  residential 
section  far  removed  from  the  small  trading  centre, 
had  its  obligations.  Mrs.  Stone  was  usually  among 
the  readiest  to  fulfil  them.  She  would  have  willingly 
sat  up  all  night  with  a  sick  neighbour,  but  there  are 
times  when  to  borrow  milk  oversteps  the  mark. 

"We  have  only  a  very  small  quantity  ourselves — 
after  making  ice-cream.  I  was  saving  what  we  have 
for  the  creamed  potatoes  for  dinner — pahpa  is  so 
fond  of  them — but  I  suppose  I  can  spare  you  a  small 
cupful."  She  was  going  into  the  house  as  she  spoke, 
Mrs.  Laurence  herself  following. 

"No,  no;  don't  give  it  to  me!" 

"Oh,  yes;  take  it,"  said  Mrs.  Stone  dispassion- 
ately, pouring  a  small  quantity  of  the  fluid  into  the 
pitcher.  "Pahpa'll  have  to  get  along  with  boiled 
potatoes.  I  suppose  you  know  you  can  sometimes 
buy  milk  from  Mrs.  Anderson,  in  the  brown  house 
next  the  red  barn,  if  you  go  for  it  yourself." 

"Oh,  thank  you;  thank  you  so  very  much!"  said 
Mrs.  Laurence,  and,  conscience-stricken,  made  off 


60  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

wearily  with  her  pitcher.  Whatever  breeze  might 
have  been  had  died  out;  the  land  lay  smothered  in 
the  dead  heat,  her  skin  from  head  to  foot  was  damp 
with  it;  a  strange,  swaying  dizziness  possessed  her — 
and  then,  fortunately,  went.  She  took  a  postal  card 
from  the  letter-carrier  as  she  reached  her  own  door, 
and  stopped  a  moment  to  read  it.  It  was  from 
Blanche,  her  sister-in-law,  in  her  usual  telegraphic 
style : 

DEAR  NAN:  Have  concluded  make  visit  to  you  this 
month  instead  next,  as  dentist  sails  Europe — Alps,  Italy 
— on  first.  Bertrand  needs  work  on  jaw.  Arrive,  both 
boys,  Wednesday. 

BLANCHE. 
P.  S.     Have  sent  two  packages  parcel  post. 

Wednesday — good  heavens,  that  was  to-morrow. 

"Nan!" 

A  cautious  voice  from  over  the  stairs  seemed  to 
hint  at  scanty  clothing. 

"Yes,  Corny,  I'm  coming.  Wait  till  I  get  a  glass. 
Here  I  am!  How  is  Aunt  Neely  now?" 

"Well,  she  isn't  much  better.  She  felt  the  lack 
of  air.  I  took  out  the  screens,  dear;  I  know  you 
won't  mind.  Mother  couldn't  breathe  with  them 
in."  Corny  stopped,  and  gathered  herself  together 
as  one  who  feels  a  duty  laid  upon  her.  "Nan,  I  do 
not  see  how  you  stand  the  mosquitoes  here.  Of 
course,  I  know  that  the  janitor  said  that  we  must 
expect  them,  but  I  had  no  idea  they  were  like  this. 
I've  killed  a  dozen." 


AS  LOCHINVAR  61 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  take  out  the  screens,"  said 
Mrs.  Laurence  belligerently,  and  then  stopped  short. 
What  was  the  use?  She  bent  over  the  bed  where  the 
old  lady  lay,  helpless,  but  bright-eyed  still. 

"Can't  I  do  anything  for  you,  dear  Aunt  Neely?" 

"I'll  be  all  right,  dear^"  whispered  the  invalid. 

"I  hope  Will  will  get.  here  soon — she  misses  the 
janitor,"  said  the  daughter  feelingly.  "Mother  likes 
to  have  a  man  around;  we  depend  on  the  janitor  for 
so  many  things.  And  this  is  the  hour  when  the 
janitor's  children  all  come  in  to  see  Mother,  and 
get  their  nickel — there  are  five  of  them,  like  little 

steps — five  now,  but  we  think,  Mother  and  I " 

Corny  paused  significantly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  hastily.  She  con- 
ceived an  aversion  to  further  confidences  as  to  the 
janitor  and  his  family. 

"Is  the  milk  all  right?" 

"Well,  it's  a  little  thinner  than  what  Mother's  used 
to.  Of  course,  in  the  city  we  get  nearly  all  cream; 
as  the  janitor  says,  'Mrs.  Higbee,  it's  well  worth  the 
extra  price  you  pay  for  it,'  and  so  it  is." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence  dully.  She  felt  as  if 
some  strange  web  was  spinning  itself  around  her. 
She  was  so  stupidly  tired!  B-'t  it  was  six  o'clock  al- 
ready and  she  must  begin  to  think  of  supper — and 
more  milk!  As  she  ran  downstairs  now  she  all  but 
collided  with  her  husband's  tall,  dignified  figure  in 
the  front  hall.  His  gaze,  which  had  an  undefined 
anxiety  in  it,  relaxed  as  it  met  hers. 

"Hello,  Nan!" 


62          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Oh,  Will,  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  you!  I'm 
just  ready  to  drop.  Where's  Mr.  Sains?" 

"We  came  out  with  Roofer,  in  his  brother-in-law's 
car;  they've  gone  for  a  little  spin.  Roofer'll  be  here 
for  dinner,  too.  D'ye  mind?" 

"I  don't  mind  anything  since  you're  here.  You'll 
have  to  help  me  out.  Oh,  Will,  I've  just  had  a  card 
from  Blanche  saying  she  is  coming  out  to-morrow — 
of  all  times — with  the  two  boys,  instead  of  next 
month,  when  I'd  invited  her.  She  wants  to  have 
their  teeth  attended  to.  But  isn't  it  just  like 
Blanche!  I'll  have  to  try  and  get  Mrs.  Cooley  to 
help  me." 

"Why  do  you  let  her  come?" 

"Why,  what  else  could  I  do?" 

"I  know  what  I'd  do — send  her  a  telegram  telling 
her  you  can't  have  her.  She'd  do  it  to  you ! " 

"Oh,  Will,  I  can't  be  rude!  She  knows  we  have 
plenty  of  room.  Besides,  she  has  sent  on  some  things 
by  parcel  post." 

"All  right,  have  it  your  own  way.  You  asked  me 
what  to  do,  and  I  told  you." 

"Ah,  don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  dearest!" 

Mrs.  Laurence  put  her  arms  around  his  half- 
reluctant  shoulders,  and  leaned  her  head  against 
him.  "I  haven't  told  you  all!  Will,  Aunt  Neely 
and  Corny  are  upstairs." 

"No/"     His  arms  instinctively  closed  around  her. 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Laurence  paused  solemnly.  "They 
came  out  for  the  night;  Aunt  Neely  wanted  to  see 
you,  but  the  journey  was  too  much  for  her.  Corny 


AS  LOCHINVAR  63 

has  her  in  bed;  Corny 's  in  despair.  I  don't  know 
how  she's  going  to  get  back  to-morrow.  You'd  better 
go  up  and  see  them." 

Mr.  Laurence  whistled.  "I  will  in  a  minute."  He 
sat  down  suddenly,  pushing  another  chair  toward  his 
wife.  "  You'd  better  sit  down,  Nan,  you're  so  tired." 

"Oh,  Will  I  can't,  I've  too  much  to  do.  Is  there 
anything  you  wanted  to  say  to  me?" 

He  nodded,  looking  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"Sains  wants  me  to  go  off  with  him  to-morrow 
camping  for  a  few  days,  up  at  White  Vale."  White 
Vale  was  a  lake  some  forty  miles  back  in  the  country 
where  there  was  a  fishing  cabin  and  a  boat.  "I 
though  I  couldn't  get  away  from  the  office,  but  it 
seems  that  I  can.  The  only  thing  that  stood  in  the 
way  was  leaving  you  alone.  But  if  you're  going  to 
have  Blanche  and  the  boys 

"Oh,  go,  of  course,  I'll  be  all  right,"  she  said 
shortly,  going  off  to  the  kitchen  while  he  mounted 
the  stairs  to  Aunt  Neely.  She  could  hear  the  warmth 
of  Corny's  greeting,  and  even  Aunt  Neely's  thin, 
tremulous  voice;  Will  was  the  star. 

Mrs.  Laurence  after  all  these  years  of  wedded  life 
was  still  girlishly  in  love  with  her  husband.  For  her, 
his  presence  made  the  world.  It  was  always  a  pull 
to  have  him  go  off  on  one  of  his  fishing  trips,  though 
she  herself  spurred  him  on,  because  they  did  him  so 
much  good.  She  had  her  secret  heart-re  warding 
in  the  fact  that  she  always  seemed  to  look  very  nice 
to  him  when  he  returned;  he  made  her  a  partner 
in  every  exciting  detail. 


64  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

But  to  be  left  now  with  Blanche  and  the  two  boys 
was  almost  too  much  to  stand.  She  nearly  burst  into 
a  foolish  fit  of  crying;  she  was  so  tired,  and  wanted 
so  much  to  be  taken  care  of,  even  though,  paradoxic- 
ally, she  could  never  let  him  take  care  of  her! 

While  Will  was  upstairs,  and  after  telephoning 
for  milk  unavailingly  to  the  closed  shops,  she  per- 
versely slipped  out  of  the  door,  and  trudged  painfully 
the  half  mile  to  Mrs.  Anderson's,  next  to  the  red  barn 
across  the  track,  instead  of  sending  him  for  it,  thank- 
fully paying  twenty -five  cents  for  the  last  bottle  Mrs. 
Anderson  had. 

That  problem  was  settled  at  any  rate;  no  matter 
what  was  to  come.  It  was  so  hot,  perhaps  Blanche 
would  not  start  after  all.  The  parcels  had  not  yet 
arrived — encouraging  thought ! 

Mr.  Sains  was  a  charming  young  fellow,  small 
and  fair;  Mr.  Roofer  was  small  and  dark  and  equally 
charming.  Slender  Mrs.  Laurence,  in  her  white 
gown  and  coral  beads,  had  a  feminine  attraction  to 
be  felt  by  any  man;  together,  the  couple,  light  of 
foot,  started  hither  and  yon  in  assistance  to  her  as 
she  purveyed  the  dainty  and  appetizing  cold  meal; 
taking  dishes  from  her  hand  to  plant  them  trium- 
phantly on  the  dining  table,  pretending  to  stab 
themselves  with  the  silver  forks  and  dancing  sol- 
emnly in  exaggerated  postures  during  the  intervals 
of  service,  with  a  stave  of  mock  opera  thrown  in 
for  variety;  while  the  master  of  the  house,  appear- 
ing at  last  from  the  upper  regions,  made  several 


AS  LOCHINVAR  65 

ineffectual  journeys  to  the  ice-box,  bringing  up  the 
whole  crockful  of  butter  instead  of  the  plate  of  but- 
ter balls  his  wife  had  meant  when  she  said  "the 
butter,"  and  cracking  such  a  small  bowlful  of  ice 
that  she  had  to  go  down  herself  surreptitiously  to 
supplement  it. 

After  all  her  careful  arrangements  so  that  she 
wouldn't  have  to  cook  anything  at  night,  at  the  last 
moment  she  had  to  light  up  the  gas  range,  after  all, 
to  make  toast  and  scramble  eggs,  while  the  kettle 
sent  forth  a  rising  cloud  of  steam;  Corny,  it  ap- 
peared, possessed  a  digestion  that  could  only  as- 
similate warm  food  when  the  thermometer  was  in 
the  nineties. 

Now  that  night  had  fallen,  Aunt  Neely  was  be- 
coming restless,  so  that  Corny  felt  she  couldn't 
leave  her;  Mrs.  Laurence  herself  stumbled  upstairs 
with  the  tray.  Everything  one  touched  seemed 
sticky  with  the  heat — through  the  close,  hot  dark- 
ness there  was  a  muttered  roll  of  thunder.  Corny 
loomed  large  and  tragic  in  a  kimono  of  interwoven 
crimson  storks. 

"Mother  wants  to  get  back  to-night,"  she  ap- 
pealed to  Mrs.  Laurence,  "in  the  state  she  is  now! 
Why,  she  can't  sit  up.  She  can't  hear  what  I  say. 
She  misses  her  own  bed — and  it's  so  dark  and  gloomy 
outside  it  frightens  her,  dear.  The  moon  is  always 
so  uncertain  in  the  country.  The  city  is  so  cheerful 
with  all  the  electric  lights.  Will  insisted  on  putting 
back  the  screens  so  there  isn't  a  breath  of  air.  Mother! 
Don't  you  move — stay  where  you  are.  I  think  she 


66  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIEJ> 

looks  very  bad — she  can't  hear  what  I  say.  Now 
if  we  were  in  town  the  janitor  could  go  out  and  get 
her  some  ice-cream — that  always  does  her  good;  but 
the  country  is  so  inconvenient!  I  hope  she  isn't 
going  to  have  one  of  her  turns." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  responded  Mrs.  Laurence  anx- 
iously. She  was  thankful  to  get  downstairs  again  in 
more  cheerful  surroundings,  even  though  the  air 
was  stifling,  and  to  be  escorted  to  her  place  at  the 
table  by  both  young  men.  The  crabs,  the  salad, 
the  iced  coffee,  the  sandwiches  seemed  to  be  as  much 
appreciated  as  she  hoped  they  would  be;  she  herself 
couldn't  eat. 

"This  tastes  fine,"  said  Mr.  Sains. 

"I  should  say  so,"  chimed  in  Mr.  Roofer. 

"I  tell  you  what,"  continued  the  cheerful  Mr.  Sains, 
"  the  ride'll  be  grand  to-morrow  night,  back  over  the 
hills,  won't  it,  Laurence?  Always  cool  up  there!" 

"Is  Mr.  Roofer  going,  too?"  asked  Mrs.  Laurence. 

That  gentleman  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "No, 
the  firm's  too  stuck  on  me — can't  bear  to  part  with 
me  for  an  hour.  Isn't  it  tough  luck?" 

"Awful  to  be  so  necessary,"  said  Mr.  Sains,  deftly 
flipping  a  biscuit  across  the  table.  "  I  can  just  hear 
the  cool  water  lapping  on  the  cool  rocks  to-morrow 
night,  with  the  cool  dew  falling  and  the  cool  breeze 
rustling  through  the  trees,  and  the  cool  fish  jumping 
in  the  lake — Roofer,  stay  on  your  own  side,  you'll 
annoy  the  lady  with  your  rude  manners.  Dost  thou 
like  the  picture,  Laurence?" 

"You  bet  I  do!"     His  countenance  changed  sud- 


AS  LOCHINVAR  67 

denly  to  one  of  anxiety.  "Now  where  are  you  going, 
Nan?" 

"Just  down  to  the  ice-box  for  Aunt  Neely's  milk." 
It  was  hard  to  keep  the  tears  out  of  her  voice. 

"You  sit  still.     I'll  see  to  it." 

He  emerged  from  the  cellar  in  a  couple  of  moments 
with  the  glass  in  his  hand.  "No  use  taking  this  up, 
Nan;  it's  sour." 

"Sour!  That's  impossible;  I  brought  it  in  only 
an  hour  ago.  What  have  you  done  to  it?" 

"What  have  I  done  to  it!  Ah,  look  here,  Nan, 
that's  a  little  too  much.  What  could  I  have  done  to 
it?" 

"No,  no;  of  course  not — the  thunder  must  have 
turned  it.  What  shall  I  do?" 

"I'll  run  over  to  the  Plaisteds,  if  you  like,  and 
borrow  some — they're  home;  they  are  sure  to  have 
plenty." 

"Go  for  milk  to  the  Plaisteds!"  Mrs.  Laurence's 
face  flushed.  "  Really,  I  don't  understand  you  some- 
times, Will — after  the  way  she  complained  of 
Robert— 

"All  right,  do  as  you  please,"  said  her  husband 
carelessly.  "I  was  only  trying  to  help  you  out." 

"Now,  don't  you  worry,  Mrs.  Laurence,"  said 
Mr.  Sains  engagingly;  "we'll  take  the  machine 
and  hunt  you  up  some  milk,  see  if  we  don't." 

''It's  awfully  good  of  you, but  everything  is  closed!" 

"Oh,  we'll  find  something  open,"  said  Mr.  Roofer 
in  a  tone  that  carried  a  significant  strain  of  conviction 
with  it.  "Why  don't  you  come  out  with  us  for  a 


68  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

little  spin,  Mrs.  Laurence?  The  air  would  do  you 
good." 

"Yes,  why  don't  you?"  seconded  her  husband. 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly — with  all  these  dishes  to 
clear  away — but  thank  you  just  the  same."  The  per- 
verse spirit  of  self-sacrifice  filled  her.  "You  go  with 
them,  Will .  I'll  be  here  if  Aunt  Neely  wants  any  thing. ' ' 

"All  right;  we'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes,"  he 
assented  with  an  alacrity  that  gave  her  a  pang,  but 
as  he  reached  the  door,  following  after  the  others, 
he  turned  and  came  back  again  with  an  anxiety  in 
his  eyes  that  seemed  unwontedly  to  gauge  her.  When 
he  spoke  there  was  an  appeal  in  his  voice  not  unmixed 
with  sternness. 

It  brought  back  to  her  in  a  flash  that  time,  five 
years  ago,  when  she  had  insisted,  in  spite  of  his  ex- 
pressed command,  in  papering  an  attic  room  herself, 
ceiling  and  all,  rather  than  have  a  man  to  do  it;  Will 
was  always  foolishly  ready  to  spend  money.  He  had 
been  really  extremely  angry  when  he  came  home  and 
found  that  she  had  fallen  off  the  ladder  and  fainted, 
and  strained  her  back.  He  had  hardly  spoken  to 
her  all  that  entire  week  that  she  lay  in  bed  after- 
ward— it  took  all  her  unwearying  charm  to  bring 
him  round.  There  had  been  a  thrill  in  doing  it — 
a  sense  of  danger  well  escaped — but  not  to  be  in- 
curred again.  If  he  had  left  her  more  to  her  own 
desires  since,  she  had  tacitly  been  more  temperate 
in  her  use  of  them.  That  hint  of  stern  offence  was 
in  his  tone  now  as  he  made  the  appeal  which  more 
than  any  other  rouses  the  defiant  ire  of  womankind. 


AS  LOCHINVAR  69 

"Why  do  you  wash  the  dishes  now,  Nan?  Why 
don't  you  lie  down  and  rest  a  little  first?  We'll 
all  help  you  when  we  come  back." 

"Leave  the  dishes!" 

He  was  spared  the  rest  of  her  hurtling  reply,  as  a 
man  stamped  heavily  up  on  the  porch,  bringing  into 
view  at  the  door  two  disgraceful  bundles,  from  one 
of  which,  in  immigrant  fashion,  protruded  a  boy's 
heavy  shoe — the  parcels  from  Blanche! 

"They  had  no  street  nor  number  on  'em,  ma'am — " 
so  like  Blanche! — "and  they  went  to  Mr.  Lawriston's 
by  mistake.  He's  after  sending  me  around  wid  'em." 
The  newly  arrived  Lawristons  lived  in  the  big  marble 
house  with  the  terraces — pretty  looking  bundles  to 
go  there! 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Laurence, 
while  her  husband  searched  for  more  suitable  reward. 
Blanche  was  coming  after  all! 

When  the  men  all  left,  Mrs.  Laurence  flew  to  her 
work,  after  a  weary  journey  upstairs  for  Corny's 
tray.  The  dishes  in  her  competent  hands  rattled 
into  the  pan  of  hot  suds  and  out  of  it,  washed  and 
dried  and  put  away,  while  the  heat  clung  to  her 
sickeningly. 

As  she  was  finishing,  Corny's  anxious  voice  came 
down  once  more  from  above. 

"If  you'll  bring  up  some  hot  water,  dear,  I'll 
give  mother  a  footbath.  In  town,  of  course,  there 
is  always  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  faucets,  but 
here " 

"I'll  heat  some  at  once."    But  when  she  finally 


70          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

lugged  up  the  steaming  pailful,  she  found  Corny  in 
tears. 

"I  think  you'd  better  telephone  for  the  doctor 
at  once,  Nan,"  she  insisted.  "I  can't  do  anything 
with  her!" 

Mrs.  Laurence  rushed  madly  down  again  to  find 
on  telephoning  that  the  doctor  was  off  on  his  vaca- 
tion; she  might  call  up  Dr.  Giddings.  It  seemed 
hours  as  she  stood  there,  stifled  in  the  dark  closet, 
waiting  for  the  wire  to  be  free,  and  when  she  did  get 
it,  waiting  and  ringing  fruitlessly  for  a  response. 
Evidently  no  one  cared  at  Dr.  Giddings's  this  hot 
night  whether  the  telephone  rang  or  not.  "I'll 
try  again  later,"  she  said  to  the  deeply  disapproving 
Corny — the  janitor,  it  appeared,  could  always  get  a 
doctor.  She  had  to  explain,  after  all,  that  Will  had 
gone  for  more  milk. 

And  how  long  they  were  gone!  Just  like  those 
boys  to  forget  all  about  time  when  they  got  off. 
Everything  seemed  to  crowd  in  on  her  now.  She 
wouldn't  wait  for  Will's  help.  She  brought  up 
cracked  ice  from  the  cellar;  she  dragged  the  big 
rocking  chair  with  the  arms  from  another  room  so 
that  Corny  would  have  something  in  which  to  sit  up 
all  night;  she  fetched  and  carried,  making  up  a  bed 
in  Robert's  room  for  Mr.  Sains — she  would  have  to 
see  about  the  arrangements  for  Blanche  in  the  morn- 
ing. Aunt  Neely  might  be  ill  a  long  time.  She 
could  hear  Blanche  cheerfully  saying  that  she  didn't 
mind  how  upset  things  were!  She  could  feel  every- 
thing piling,  piling  up  on  her  while  Will  was  off  on 


AS  LOCHINVAR  71 

his  fishing  trip —  -  Ah,  that  was  the  rub!  She  was 
suddenly  possessed  by  an  hysterical  sense  of  injury; 
she  was  doing  so  many  things  for  everybody,  and 
nobody  was  doing  anything  at  all  for  her;  no  one 
cared  how  tired  she  got,  though  she  was  trembling  in 
every  limb  and  could  hardly  see. 

"Oh,  here  you  are  at  last!"  she  almost  wailed  as 
she  ran  out  on  the  porch  at  the  chug-chug  of  the 
motor.  "I  thought  you  would  never,  never  come!" 

"You  don't  know  how  far  we  had  to  go  for  this," 
said  her  husband,  placing  the  bottle  of  milk  in  her 
eager  grasp.  "We  burst  a  tire  coming  back,  besides. 
Take  care,  don't  drop  it." 

"We  cheered  wildly  out  in  the  street  when  we 
finally  got  that  bottle,"  said  Mr.  Sains.  He  and 
Mr.  Roofer  assisted  her  in,  one  on  either  side,  affec- 
tionately. Her  shaking  fingers  poured  out  a  glass 
of  the  fluid  while  she  hurriedly  explained  the  state 
of  things. 

"Corny  is  frightfully  worried — she's  afraid  Aunt 
Neely  is  starting  in  for  a  long  illness." 

Mr.  Laurence  looked  at  her  frowningly.  "Well, 
I  don't  know  what  you're  going  to  do — really!  I'll 
take  this  up,  and  see  about  things." 

"Very  well,"  said  his  wife.  He  grew  dim  before 
her  eyes.  "Did  you — did  you  only  bring  one  bottle 
of  milk?" 

The  three  men  stared  at  her  blankly. 

"Why — you  didn't  tell  us  to  bring  two,  did  you?" 

"No,  no;  of  course  not,"  she  rejoined  in  haste. 
Why  did  a  man  always  have  to  be  told  so  particularly? 


72  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Why  couldn't  he  ever  use  his  judgment?  Why  must 
you  always  have  to  explain  everything? 

"  I  tell  you,  it's  the  hottest  night  I've  ever  known," 
said  Mr.  Sains  candidly,  wiping  his  forehead  with  a 
moist  handkerchief.  He  put  out  a  damp  coat  sleeve 
ingenuously  for  inspection:  "Feel  me!  It'll  do 
Laurence  a  world  of  good  to  get  off  to-morrow, 
Mrs.  Laurence;  he's  been  working  too  hard  lately. 
Nothing  like  a  fishing  trip  to  let  the  air  in  on  you — 
it's  a  complete  rest,  body  and  mind;  you  shake  off 
everything  that's  troubling  you.  I  can  hardly  wait, 
myself,  till  to-morrow.  You  look  tired  out,  Mrs. 
Laurence.  Don't  get  up,  let  me  put  that  bottle  in 
the  ice-box  for  you." 

"No,  no,  I'll  just  run  down  with  it  myself.  You 
wouldn't  know  where  to  put  it,"  she  returned  hastily, 
in  the  unconscious  wooing  of  her  fate. 

She  really  hadn't  known  how  dizzy  she  was.  She 
hurried  down  the  steep  cellar  stairs,  and  threw  open 
the  door  of  the  refrigerator.  As  she  did  so,  the  bottle 
fell  from  her  lax  hand,  splintering  with  a  loud  crash 
into  fifty  pieces,  while  the  milk,  in  a  white  rivulet, 
meandered  across  the  cellar  floor. 

The  next  instant,  Mrs.  Laurence  pitched  forward, 
struck  her  head  against  the  edge  of  the  open  door  of 
the  ice-box,  and  went  down  in  a  heap. 

For  some  time  afterward  she  seemed  to  open  her 
eyes  at  occasional  intervals  with  a  hazy  impression 
of  lying  out  flat  on  the  parlour  sofa,  with  something 
cold  on  her  head,  and  Mr.  Sains  fanning  her  while 


AS  LOCHINVAR  73 

Will  put  something  down  her  throat  with  a  spoon, 
and  both  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  of  deep  concern. 
After  a  while  that  queer,  blurred  feeling  hi  her  head 
began  to  leave  her,  and  turn  into  a  comfortable 
drowsiness,  that  held  her  pleasantly  inert,  through 
all  the  strange  sounds  that  reached  her.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  tremendous  amount  of  heavy  run- 
ning up  and  down  stairs,  and  footsteps  tramping 
unaccustomedly  around,  and  the  telephone  bell  ring- 
ing, and  a  jumble  of  voices,  now  raised  loudly,  now 
whispering  in  consultation,  and  more  tramping  of  feet 
• — noises  that  persisted  endlessly;  then  the  sound  at 
last  of  a  motor  whirring  away,  and  afterward  silence 
— a  silence  that  suddenly  made  her  wide  awake. 
She  half  raised  her  head,  and  her  husband  came  over 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room  and  sat  down  beside 
her. 

"You've  had  a  good  sleep;  you'll  be  all  right 
now,"  he  said,  with  evident  relief,  as  he  smiled  at  her 
encouragingly,  patting  the  hand  that  was  half  tangled 
in  the  coral  beads.  He  looked  very  big  and  kind  and 
dear.  "You  gave  us  a  sure  enough  scare — I  man- 
aged to  get  Dr.  Giddings  on  the  'phone  at  last,  and 
he  told  us  to  give  you  this."  He  indicated  some 
medicine  in  a  glass  on  the  table  near.  "I  think  we 
can  get  you  up  to  bed  soon." 

"Oh,  Will!"  she  struggled  to  sit  up,  and  fell  back 
again.  "I've  got  to  see  about  more  milk  for  Aunt 
Neely." 

"No,  you  don't  have  to;  lie  still;  she's  gone!" 

"Gone!" 


74  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Yes."  He  began  to  laugh.  "By  George,  trust 
Aunt  Neely  for  getting  her  own  way !  We've  got  her 
off  to  town  in  Roofer's  automobile.  I  carried  her 
down  and  put  her  in,  while  Sains  brought  Corny  and 
the  bag." 

"Aunt  Neely — at  ninety — gone  off  in  the  car — 
to-night!" 

Mr.  Laurence  nodded.  "I  tell  you  the  old  lady 
was  as  gay  as  a  bird.  She's  worth  ten  of  Corny  any 
day.  We  telephoned  the  peerless  janitor — and  he's 
to  have  everything  ready  for  them  at  the  other  end." 

"Oh,  Will!"  She  clung  to  his  hand.  "I  can't  be- 
lieve it.  But  where  is  Mr.  Sains?  Has  he  gone  to 
bed?  Has  he  clean  towels  in  his  room?" 

"He  can  go  without  'em,  if  he  hasn't.  No,  he 
hasn't  gone  to  bed.  I've  something  else  to  talk  to 
you  about  besides  towels."  His  gaze  bent  on  her 
thoughtfully.  It  had  something  in  it  that  puzzled 
her — it  was  as  if  she  were  but  an  object  in  a  road 
down  which  his  attention  was  directed  further. 

"Sains  and  I  have  been  fixing  up  things  together. 
We're  going  to  take  you  off  camping  with  us  to- 
morrow. Now,  don't  you  say  a  word:  you're  going. 
The  house  can  take  care  of  itself  for  once !  We'll  get 
the  2.10  train  and  have  the  drive  at  the  other  end. 
It'll  be  moonlight  when  we  reach  the  camp.  You'll 
need  all  the  warm  things  you've  got — Sains  and  I 
brought  down  all  the  suitcases  I  could  find  in  the 
trunk-room,  and  I  got  your  sweater  and  thick  skirt 
and  heavy  shoes  out  of  the  closet — I  knew  you'd 
want  them.  Sains  is  stuffing  them  in  now,  and  you 


AS  LOCHINVAR  75 

can  tell  us  what  else  to  forage  for.  We  want  to  get 
some  of  these  bags  closed  to-night." 

"But,  Will!"  Mrs.  Laurence  was  sitting  bolt 
upright  hi  horror — he  and  Mr.  Sains  packing  her 
clothes  ! 

"I  carried  down  a  couple  of  pairs  of  pink-rimmed 
blankets — they  were  the  thickest  ones — and  rammed 
them  into  one  of  the  old  telescope  bags;  the  nights 
would  freeze  you  up  there.  Sains  and  I  have  it  all 
figured  out — he  is  going  to  borrow  a  small  tent." 

"But,  Will,  those  are  the  best  blankets!"  Mrs. 
Laurence's  voice  rose  piteously.  "You  can't  take 
them!" 

"Well,  they're  warm,  aren't  they?  That's  the 
main  consideration  now.  You  haven't  anything 
to  say  about  it  anyway.  This  is  my  show,  and  I'm 
running  it." 

"But,  Will,  Blanche  is  coining  to-morrow!" 

"No,  she  isn't.  As  soon  as  Sains  and  I  made  our 
plans,  I  sent  her  a  night  letter — he  suggested  it — 
and  told  her  you  wouldn't  be  home.  So  that's 
settled.  What  do  you  say?  Well,  I  don't  care 
whether  she  forgives  you  or  not;  that's  the  least  of 
my  troubles;  and  I  telephoned  Mrs.  Stone,  and  she 
says  she'll  send  the  Cooley  woman  over  here  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  She'll  be  here  herself  later. 
Sains  and  I  will  get  our  breakfast  in  town.  I'll  be 
out  before  noon;  I've  got  to  stock  up  with  the  food. 
I'll  cook  you  a  steak  in  the  open  to-morrow  night 
that  is  a  steak." 

"But,  Will— I  wouldn't  take  a  steak!    That's  so 


76          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

troublesome.  Don't  you  think  canned  pork  and 
beans  would  be  handier  for  you,  dear?  Don't  you 
think " 

She  stopped  short.  Mr.  Laurence  transfixed 
her  with  his  irate  eye. 

"See  here,  Nan!  Who's  doing  this?  I  may  not 
always  know  what  you  want,  but  /  know  what  I  want 
ivhen  I  go  on  a  fishing  trip,  and  I  don't  need  any  one 
to  tell  me!  Remember  that.  This  is  none  of  your 
housekeeping  rackets!  When  I  hit  off  my  own  bat 
I  know  where  I  am.  You're  going  with  me  this  time, 
dear;  understand?" 

His  clasp  softened  the  severity  of  his  tone.  With 
his  last  words  he  smiled  down  at  her,  a  peculiarly 
sweet  and  radiant  smile  that  somehow  seemed  to  lift 
her  out  of  her  counted-on  estate  of  wifehood  into  the 
special  honour  and  intimacy  of  a  boon  companion 
of  the  wilds.  In  spite  of  the  natural  struggles  and 
dismay  of  a  woman  and  a  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Laurence 
felt  a  wild,  unbelievable  thrill;  after  all  these  years 
her  Will  was  really  a  Lochinvar! 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND 

IT  WAS  late  in  an  afternoon,  while  the  new  parquet 
flooring  was  still  distractingly  in  process  of  being 
laid  downstairs,  that  young  Mrs.  Iverson,  leap- 
ing from  plank  to  plank  across  the  hall  to  the  tele- 
phone on  the  landing,  heard  her  husband's  voice  at 
the  other  end: 

"Hello,  Win!     Is  that  you?" 

"Yes,  dear."  She  could  almost  see  his  fair  hair 
and  sunny  blue  eyes.  "Wait  until  I  try  to  close  the 
door;  the  hammering  is  something  fearful.  There!" 
She  pushed  the  receiver  again  under  her  dark  locks. 
"Aren't  you  coming  home  to  dinner?" 

"Yes,  indeed!  I'm  going  to  bring  somebody  out 
with  me — somebody  you'll  be  glad  to  see — Delia 
Bosby;  she  used  to  be  Delia  Forrest,  you  know.  I 
took  my  meals  at  her  mother's  the  first  couple  of 
years  I  was  at  Amherst — before  Delia  got  married. 
Her  father  was  awfully  good  to  me.  When  I  went 
out  to  Chicago,  Delia  was  living  there.  Oh,  she 
heard  a  lot  about  you  afterward!  She's  always 
wanted  to  know  you.  .  .  Yes;  she's  here  now 
from  Indianapolis,  overnight,  with  her  boy,  a  fine 
little  chap  of  six  or  seven.  .  .  I  took  them  out  to 
lunch  and  I've  been  looking  up  some  people  for  her 
since.  I  found  she  was  timid  about  going  to  a  hotel; 

77 


78  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

so  I've  asked  them  to  come  out  with  me.  That's 
all  right,  isn't  it?" 

His  tone  had  a  disarming  confidence  in  her  ap- 
proval of  his  unexpected  invitation. 

"But,  Leslie! — the  floors — it's  all  so  upset!" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that;  Delia  says  she 
doesn't  mind  a  bit.  You  don't  need  to  make  com- 
pany of  Delia;  she'll  turn  to  and  help  you.  We'll 
just  picnic.  Will  see  you  soon,  dear.  Good-bye!" 

"Good-bye,"  said  Winifred  mechanically,  with  u 
dazed  look  around  as  she  dropped  the  receiver. 

All  the  furniture  of  parlour  and  dining  room  was 
jammed  into  the  hall,  or  on  the  piazza.  Two  con- 
versational men  hammered  in  the  midst  of  curly 
shavings,  while  one  in  the  dining  room,  whistling 
between  his  teeth,  pungently  shellacked.  Leslie  had 
breakfasted  that  morning  on  this  narrow  landing  of  the 
stairway,  with  the  slender  piano  stool  as  a  perch  for 
his  tray,  while  Winifred  purveyed  coffee  and  bacon 
through  the  swing  door  of  the  kitchen;  there  was  a 
delicate  feeling  that  Minna,  the  new  Swedish  maid, 
did  not  fall  in  with  the  exigencies  of  the  situation  as 
whole-heartedly  as  she  might. 

Leslie  had  an  abounding  sense  of  hospitality — his 
friends,  from  all  over  the  earth,  were  sacred;  but  here- 
tofore they  had  always  been  men. 

"Oh,  you're  here!" 

The  swing  door  that  led  from  the  kitchen  opened, 
and  the  slender  figure  and  charming  face  of  Mrs. 
Silverton  appeared,  with  the  ample  form  of  Mrs. 
Roberts,  in  purple  velvet,  just  behind. 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  79 

"The  front  seemed  to  be  all  blocked  up  with  furni- 
ture; so  we  came  around.  The  maid  told  us  to  look 
for  you." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  exclaimed  Winifred,  flushing 
indignantly.  "But  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  any- 
way. Come  upstairs,  where  we  can  talk  in  peace." 

"We've  only  dropped  in  to  bring  you  the  concert 
money  for  the  Relief  Fund.  We  can't  stay,"  said 
Mrs.Silverton,  the  two,  however,  following  Winifred's 
lead  and  seating  themselves  on  the  flowered  lounge 
of  the  chintz-hung  sitting  room,  the  floor  of  which 
was  littered  with  the  toys  of  three-year-old  Matilda. 
Mrs.  Silverton  glanced  swiftly  at  Winifred,  on  whose 
face  the  large,  marble-like  brown  orbs  of  Mrs.  Roberts 
were  already  fixed. 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter?" 

"No,  nothing;  except  that  Leslie — I  don't  know 
what  he  was  thinking  of! — just  telephoned  that  he's 
going  to  bring  out  a  Mrs.  Bosby,  an  old  Amherst 
frie*nd  of  his,  with  her  little  boy,  for  the  night.  She's 
on  now  from  Indianapolis." 

"Oh,  Indianapolis!"  said  Mrs.  Roberts,  nodding 
sagely  as  though  the  fact  covered  some  ulterior  mean- 
ing. "Yes,  I  see!  People  are  so  literary  out  there, 
I  suppose  you  can't  expect  much  of  them.  It  does 
seem  a  little  odd  to  come  on  a  man's  invitation, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Oh,  but  I've  always  heard  that  she  was  very 
nice,"  protested  Winifred  eagerly.  "I  do  think  it's 
a  little  odd  for  her  to  be  willing  to  come — with  a 
child,  too! — when  Leslie  told  her  about  the  new  floors; 


80  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

a  woman  ought  to  know  what  that  means;  but  she 
only  said  she  didn't  mind  the  inconvenience  at  all. 
Of  course  a  man  never  realizes." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  There  are  any  number  of  people 
who  don't  mind  how  much  you're  inconvenienced  if  it 
suits  them,"  said  Mrs.  Silverton  tragically.  "But 
we're  not  going  to  stay  another  minute  if  you've  got 
to  get  ready  for  company."  She  gave  Winifred  an 
affectionate  little  tap  as  she  jumped  up.  "My  dear, 
don't  look  so  intense!  It  never  pays  to  take  too 
seriously  what  a  man  does.  If  I  had  taken  Edward 
Silverton  seriously  I  should  be  in  my  grave  now, 
after  five  years !  " 

"Well,  I  believe  in  making  husbands  see  when 
they  have  been  thoughtless,"  said  Mrs.  Roberts 
meaningly,  with  a  careful  precision  of  speech. 

"Oh,  they  may  see;  but  they  never  own  that  they 
do,"  said  Mrs.  Silverton,  laughing.  "They  may  be 
awfully  nice  to  you  afterward,  to  make  up  for  what 
they've  done  —  but  they  never,  never  own  up  to 
anything!" 

II 

THE  little  table  in  the  cleared-up  chintz-hung  sit- 
ting room  had  been  festively  laid  with  the  rose- 
bordered  china  and  the  pink-shaded  silver  candlesticks 
some  time  before  the  guests  arrived;  the  meal,  though 
limited  necessarily,  was  of  the  best — mushrooms 
plentifully  bestrewed  the  steak;  the  creamed  potatoes 
were  au  gratin;  Winifred's  mother,  Mrs.  Brentwood, 
on  being  hastily  appealed  to,  had  sent  over  a  small 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  81 

freezer  of  chocolate  mousse  that  had  been  destined 
for  her  own  board;  Leslie  would  be  pleased  to  have 
his  guest  honoured  on  her  one  night's  stay.  The 
lower  floor  was  at  least  wrapped  in  silence — even 
little  Matilda  was  in  bed — when  Winifred,  in  the 
pretty  coral  gown  that  set  off  her  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
ran  down  at  last  at  the  sound  of  Leslie's  step,  to  greet 
a  short,  veiled  lady. 

"Here  we  are,  Win — Delia  and  the  boy,  and  all. 
She  wants  to  go  straight  to  her  room,  first." 

"Yes,  indeed!  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mrs. 
Bosby.  You'll  have  to  step  on  these  boards  to  reach 
the  stairs.  Will  you  come  right  up?  " 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  have  us,"  said  the  visitor, 
in  a  sweet,  low  voice.  "I  trust  you  won't  take  any 
trouble  for  us." 

"Oh,  no!  This  is  your  room;  I  hope  you'll  find 
everything  you  need.  As  soon  as  you're  ready  we'll 
have  dinner — just  across  the  hall  here,  you  see." 

"Well?"  said  Winifred  to  her  husband  interroga- 
tively when  the  two  were  alone  together. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"Well,  I've  had  a  day  of  it!"  He  smiled  down  at 
her  with  sparkling  eyes.  "Gee!  Delia  is  a  little 
woman,  but  she's  had  me  on  the  jump.  She  got  into 
town  about  eleven;  she  telegraphed  me  to  meet  her. 
I  tell  you  she  was  glad  to  see  me;  she  kissed  me  right 
there  in  the  station  before  she  knew  it !  We've  been 
trying  all  the  afternoon  to  locate  a  lawyer  who  once 
drew  up  some  title  deeds  for  her  mother;  I  think  we're 
on  his  trail  now.  She's  come  on  about  some  lots 


82  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

in  Brooklyn  that  she  hopes  to  get  money  from;  it 
may  keep  her  here  for  three  or  four  days.  I  told  her 
I  knew  you'd  like  to  have  her." 

"  Three  or  four  days !  But,  Leslie "  Winif red's 

arms  slipped  away  from  him.  "With  everything 
in  such  a  state — 

"Oh,  you'll  get  along  all  right,"  he  said  reas- 
suringly. "She'll  be  out  nearly  all  day  anyway. 
You  see,  she  can't  leave  the  child  alone  in  a  hotel." 

"But  why  doesn't  her  husband  see  to  the  law 
business?" 

"Hush!  Don't  speak  so  loud;  she'll  hear  you — 
these  walls  are  so  thin!  That's  just  it — he  wouldn't 
raise  a  finger  to  help  her.  So  she  got  a  pass  and  came 
on  herself.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  he's  a  bad 
egg;  I  only  saw  him  a  couple  of  times  when  I  was  out 
there — he  seemed  all  right  then;  but  she  can't  even 
buy  a  winter  coat,  he  keeps  her  so  close.  The  thin 
suit  she  wears  is  all  she  has,  and  that's  why  she's  try- 
ing to  raise  something  on  the  lots.  She  doesn't  say 
much  about  him,  but  you  can  see  that  she  feels  pretty 
badly  about  it.  Rough,  isn't  it,  dear?"  He  bent 
over  to  kiss  his  wife  again.  "I'll  help  you  carry  up 
the  dinner  things,  Win.  Ah,  here  comes  the  lady 
now,  and  my  young  friend,  Major.  Well,  Major, 
what  do  you  think  of  it  here?" 

"I  like  it!"  said  the  little  boy  in  a  singularly  sweet 
voice  like  his  mother's,  jumping  up  and  down  lightly. 

He  was  a  straight  little  fellow  in  a  blue  Russian 
blouse,  with  dark  eyes  and  close-curled  dark  hair, 
and  a  great  contrast  to  his  mother,  who  was  a  short, 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  83 

plump,  but  graceful  little  woman  with  a  round  face, 
a  large  waist,  and  small,  plump  hands.  She  had  a 
snub  nose  and  a  large  mouth;  her  large,  well-opened 
eyes,  which  had  a  vague,  abstracted  expression,  were 
of  the  palest  blue;  her  hair  was  a  light  drab;  and  her 
skin,  which  was  opaque  rather  than  pale,  added  to 
her  general  effect  of  colourlessness.  Even  her  lips 
were  a  pale  pink;  but  when  she  smiled,  as  she  did  now 
languidly,  she  showed  very  white  though  large  teeth. 
Her  brown  travelling  skirt,  of  some  silk  and  satin 
weave,  and  her  handsome  white  lace  waist,  though 
slightly  rumpled,  had  an  effect  of  elegance  borne  out 
by  her  silk  stockings  and  buckled  pumps,  the  little 
gold-mesh  bag  she  carried,  and  the  many  sparkling 
rings  on  her  small  fingers. 

"  I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  not  changing  to  another 
waist;  my  head  is  very  tired,"  she  announced  in  a 
low,  plaintive  voice.  "I  can  never  sleep  on  a  train 
and  I  have  been  doing  so  much  since  I  reached 
town." 

"Please  don't  apologize,"  said  Winifred  warmly. 
"Leslie,  will  you  show  Mrs.  Bosby  her  seat?" 

"Now  you  two  girls  mustn't  be  formal;  you're  to 
be  Delia  and  Winifred  to  each  other,"  said  Leslie, 
beaming  on  them  both. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bosby.  "  I  was  afraid  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  come  to  dinner  at  all,  Mrs.  Iverson — I 
had  such  a  pain  in  my  arm;  but  Major  rubbed  it  out 
for  me — he's  very  clever  at  it."  Her  smile  rested 
for  a  moment  pleasingly  on  the  child,  who  responded 
proudly  with  a  nod. 


84  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I  always  rub  her  out,"  he  announced.  "Mother 
may  I  have  some  olives?  Mother,  may  I  have  some 
olives?  Mother,  may  I  have  some " 

"Be  quiet,  Major;  you  will  be  helped  in  your 
turn,"  said  his  mother  languidly.  "May  I  ask 
whether  there  is  a  window  open  anywhere?  I 
thought  I  felt  a  slight  draft.  My  throat  is  delicate. 
Thank  you!" 

"Does  Winifred  look  as  you  expected?"  asked 
Leslie.  Mrs.  Bosby  bent  a  blank  gaze  on  her  hostess. 

"Not  at  all.  My  nerves  have  been  in  such  a  state 

lately Mrs.  Culver,  one  of  our  wealthiest  women 

in  Indianapolis — I  wish  you  could  see  her  home! — 
says  she  never  knew  any  one  with  such  a  highly  nerv- 
ous organization  as  I  have.  You  don't  know  what  it 
was  to  me,  Mrs.  Iverson,  when  I  saw  Leslie's  dear, 
kind  face,  and  knew  that,  at  any  rate,  he  was  the 
same  true  friend  that  he  had  always  been!  I  have 
gone  through  so  much." 

"Ah,  now — now!  You  mustn't  talk  like  that," 
responded  Leslie  cheerily,  yet  with  a  half  nod  at 
Winifred,  which  seemed  confirmation  of  depths  of 
sorrow.  "I  don't  know  any  girl  who  was  ever  more 

popular  than  you,  Delia.  Do  you  remember " 

The  college  Past  flooded  in,  Winifred  being  neces- 
sarily left  high  and  dry  on  the  bank;  though  Leslie 
occasionally,  with  gallant  effort,  strove  to  throw  a 
grapple  in  her  direction. 

The  little  boy  was  charming  and  well  behaved, 
though  he  had  a  way  of  stretching  out  his  small  hand 
slyly  and  with  lightning  rapidity  abstracting  salted 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  85 

almonds  or  olives,  with  a  roguish  smile  when  his  eyes 
met  Winifred's.  The  latter  smiled  in  return. 

"I  have  a  little  girl;  she's  asleep  now,  but  she'll  be 
very  glad  to  see  you  to-morrow,"  she  said  aside  to  him. 

"I  like  little  girls,"  the  agreed  gravely.  "They 
give  you  half  their  apple." 

"Oh!"  said  Winifred,  laughing. 

"Is  Mr.  Iverson  your  little  girl's  papa?" 

"Yes." 

"My  papa  is  awful  fond  of  me!"  he  confided. 
"That  is  why  my  mamma  can  always  get  what  she 
wants.  My  papa  and  mamma  fights  terriable, 
Katie  says.  Katie  is  our  cook.  We  had  a  nautomo- 
bile,  and  Papa  sold  it;  and  Mamma  cried." 

"Oh!"  returned  .Winifred,  staring,  before  turning 
to  answer  a  question  of  Leslie's,  with  a  side  glance  at 
Mrs.  Bosby,  who  was  consuming  all  the  good  things 
set  before  her,  but  without  any  apparent  interest  in 
the  act;  even  when  passing  her  plate  afterward,  on 
Winifred's  invitation,  for  a  second  helping  of  Mrs. 
Brentwood's  delicious  mousse,  she  remarked  that  it 
never  made  any  difference  to  her  what  she  ate. 

After  dinner  she  disappeared,  going  to  her  room 
to  unpack  her  bag  and  put  Major  to  bed,  while  Leslie 
and  Winifred  hurriedly  conveyed  dishes  and  debris 
to  the  lower  regions,  to  the  sternly  disapproving 
Minna — never  in  any  house  where  she  had  lived  had 
there  been  company  at  such  a  time! 

When  the  sitting  room  was  finally  set  in  order 
Mrs.  Bosby  reappeared,  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in 
her  hand. 


86          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I've  been  trying  to  make  out  these,  but  my  brain 
gets  very  tired,"  she  announced  in  her  gently  plain- 
tive voice.  "You  don't  mind  my  asking  Leslie  to 
look  them  over  with  me,  Mrs.  Iverson?" 

"No,  indeed!"  said  Winifred  cordially,  making 
way  for  the  two  on  the  flowered  lounge,  where  the 
table,  with  the  lamp,  would  be  in  front  of  them.  She 
had  a  vague  impression,  as  Mrs.  Bosby  glanced  round, 
that  the  latter  was  rather  disappointed  because  the 
surroundings  were  not  more  affluent. 

Winifred  tucked  herself  into  an  armchair,  with  a 
book,  and  after  a  while  went  to  sleep  to  the  continued 
slight  rustling  of  papers  and  the  low,  monotonous 
sound  of  voices — woke  up  and  drowsed  off  again; 
repeated  the  process,  and  finally  jumped  up  with  the 
lightsome  proclamation  that  they  would  all  be  better 
in  bed. 

Even  then  Mrs.  Bosby  stood  in  the  doorway,  with 
her  hand  on  the  jamb,  ready  to  pass  through,  but 
not  passing  through  for  an  hour  more,  talking  to 
Leslie,  with  an  occasional  word  from  Winifred.  It 
was  after  twelve  when  they  separated. 

"You  must  be  tired,"  Winifred  said  to  her  husband. 

"Oh,  not  a  bit  of  it!"  he  protested.  "What  do 
you  think  of  Delia?  Fine,  isn't  she!  She  thinks 
you're  wonderful — so  sympathetic;  that's  what  she 
needs — sympathy.  If  I  could  tell  you  all  she's  been 
through — she  doesn't  talk  about  it,  of  course,  but 

that  husband  of  hers Why,  she  doesn't  dare 

leave  that  child  behind  when  she  goes  away!  It's 
the  only  hold  on  him  she's  got." 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  87 

"Hush!  Don't  talk  so  loud,  Leslie;  Mrs.  Bosby 
will  hear  you!"  said  Winifred  nervously.  "Do  you 
realize  that  I've  got  to  carry  up  the  dishes  now  and 
set  the  table  for  breakfast?" 

Ill 

IT  WAS  rather  a  relief  that  Mrs.  Bosby  asked 
whether  she  might  have  her  breakfast  in  bed ;  a  tray 
was  an  easy  matter. 

Major,  however,  appeared,  fresh  and  smiling,  to 
the  great  delight  of  the  little,  fair-curled  Matilda, 
who  neglected  her  own  cereal  while  he  ate  dramati- 
cally for  her  benefit  with  large  wavings  of  his  spoon 
and  snapping  bites  at  his  toast;  afterward  he  sat  down 
on  the  floor  by  her  and  built  railroads  with  blocks, 
keeping  her  delightedly  absorbed. 

Leslie  had  hurried  tersely  through  his  meal  to  the 
sound  of  hammers  below;  so  many  things  had  to  be 
left  undone  yesterday.  And  just  now  when,  even 
through  the  war  depression,  the  much-needed  busi- 
ness was  starting  up  a  little!  To  Winifred,  it  al- 
ways seemed  as  though  when  business  was  better 
all  care  should  cease,  but  it  served  to  make  Leslie 
even  more  preoccupied. 

It  was  a  couple  of  hours  later  when  the  guest  ap- 
peared, ready  for  her  journey  into  town,  round-faced 
and  pale-eyed  but  with  that  subdued  effect  of  elegance 
in  her  appointments;  she  did  not  look  like  a  lady 
who  was  suffering  from  lack  of  funds. 

"But  is  your  jacket  warm  enough  to-day?"  Wini- 
fred queried  incautiously. 


88  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"It  is  all  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Bosby,  in  a  tone 
charged  with  quiet  bitterness. 

"I  hope  you  slept  well." 

"Thank  you;  I  seldom  sleep,  but  I  rested,"  said  the 
visitor.  "Is  that  your  little  Matilda?  She  doesn't 
look  like  her  father,  does  she?  Well,  Major!"  A 
charming  smile  lit  up  her  face  as  the  boy  ran  to  her 
and  put  his  arms  round  her  neck.  "Kiss  Mother 
good-bye.  No;  you  can't  come  with  me — I  shall  not 
be  home  until  late.  Mind  everything  Mrs.  Iverson 
tells  you  while  I'm  gone.  Now  run  back  to  the  little 
girl  and  amuse  her  nicely." 

"He  is  a  dear  little  boy,"  said  Winifred  warmly, 
as  he  obeyed.  Mrs.  Bosby  nodded  solemnly. 

"Major  is  a  wonderful  child.  Mr.  Palfrey — he's 
one  of  our  millionaires — says  he  has  never  seen  a 
boy  with  such  a  beautiful  face  and  nature  as  Major; 
he  hasn't  a  fault — Major,  use  your  handkerchief! 
Those  workmen  make  such  a  frightful  noise  I  don't 
see  how  you  stand  it !  No — don't  come  down  to  the 
door  with  me;  you  have  enough  to  do.  I  can  find 
my  way  out." 

In  the  visitor's  glance  round,  Winifred  received 
the  impression  of  the  night  before,  she  couldn't  tell 
how,  that  Mrs.  Bosby  was  disappointed  because  they 
lived  on  so  small  a  scale.  She  seemed  really  rather 
nice,  yet  oddly  baffling;  there  was  a  feeling  that  she 
might  develop  in  some  way  that  was  not  expected. 

It  was  a  little  difficult  flying  round  the  house, 
putting  the  rooms  in  order,  with  Major  interestedly 
following —  little  Matilda,  of  course,  stumping  in  his 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  89 

wake — undoubtedly  good,  but  hamperingly  conver- 
sational. 

"Why  do  you  make  the  beds,  Mrs.  Iverson?  Why 
are  those  men  working  here?  Why  haven't  you 
got  a  little  boy  like  me?  Why  are  you  going  down- 
stairs again?  Why  do  you  have  that  little  mole  at 
the  corner  of  your  mouth,  Mrs.  Iverson?"  Ques- 
tions interspersed  with  remarks  that  Winifred  felt 
she  should  not  hear,  such  as:  "My  papa  didn't  know 
we  were  going  away,  I  guess  he  was  awful  mad. 
Sometimes  my  mamma  cries  at  breakfast." 

It  was  a  relief  when  Mrs.  Brentwood,  after  tele- 
phoning, stopped  to  take  care  of  the  children;  and 
Winifred  herself  got  over  to  the  market,  where  you 
met  everybody  you  knew  at  eleven  o'clock,  in  these 
days  when  people  openly  bragged  of  their  economies; 
those  whose  incomes  had  not  been  lessened  by  the 
war  were  almost  apologetic. 

Back  of  one's  own  affairs  there  was  ever  that  deep- 
ening sense  of  urgent  need,  both  here  and  abroad. 
Every  small  social  diversion  was  made  to  pay  its  toll, 
as  well  as  the  big  balls  and  charity  concerts.  Lucia 
Bannard's  bridge  party  that  night  cost  you  fifty 
cents  for  the  local  Relief  Fund;  the  little  dance  at 
Mrs.  Silverton's,  the  Monday  when  you  carried  over 
all  your  own  fox-trot  records,  mulcted  you  the  same 
amount  for  the  non-combatants;  women  knitted 
woollen  scarfs  for  soldiers  in  trains  and  penitentiaries 
and  opera  boxes. 

"And  if  you  have  an  overcoat  for  a  poor  man " 

Lucia  Bannard,  velvet-toqued  and  furred,  made 


90 

incidental  appeal  to  Winifred  as  they  stood  by  the 
pearly  onions  and  golden  grapefruit,  unheeding  the 
outstretched  hand  of  the  vendor  behind  the  stall, 
patiently  offering  change. 

"We  haven't  a  thing  left  to  give  away." 

"Well,  somebody's  got  to  find  one!  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  so  dear  as  things  are?"  Lucia's  tone 
took  on  a  fervid  quality.  "It's  the  most  astonish- 
ing thing,  I  don't  know  how  we've  managed  it, 
but  now,  when  Donald's  business  has  been  so  bad 
and  there's  less  money  than  we've  ever  had,  we're 
actually  paying  cash  for  everything.  Oh,  I  can't 
begin  to  tell  you  how  those  bills  have  hung  over  me 
each  month  ever  since  I  was  married!  I  feel  like 
a  free  woman.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is  my  change; 
thank  you.  Oh,  I  think  I'll  take  one  beet.  No,  I 
don't  care  if  a  bunch  is  only  five  cents;  I  just  want  one 
for  garnish." 

"Your  company  came,  didn't  she?"  said  Mrs. 
Roberts,  ornately  joining  the  group.  "I  saw  her 
walking  home  from  the  station  with  Mr.  Iverson  last 
evening;  he  was  talking  so  interestedly  he  didn't  see 
me.  What  did  you  say?  She's  going  to  stay  a 
couple  of  days  longer?  No — not  really!  Well, 
you'll  have  to  bring  her  to  the  Bannards'  bridge  party 
to-night  then.  You  and  Leslie  can't  possibly  drop 
out  now. " 

"Leslie  told  her  we  had  the  engagement,  but  she  said 
last  night  she  didn't  know  much  about  the  game." 

"Oh,  then  she'll  come!"  said  Mrs.  Silverton  with 
decision. 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  91 

Events  proved  her  right.  Mrs.  Bosby  did  not 
return  until  dinner  time,  with  Leslie;  little  Major 
had  been  glued  to  the  upstairs  window  for  an  hour 
watching  for  her,  the  floor  below  being  still  in  chaos. 
She  had,  it  appeared,  been  sitting  all  day  in  a  corner 
of  Leslie's  office  by  the  stenographer's  desk,  waiting 
for  a  telephone  message  from  her  husband  or  the 
lawyer,  neither  of  which  came,  and  only  going  out  to 
lunch  meekly  with  Leslie  because  he  insisted  on  it. 

"She  hasn't  the  spirit  to  eat,"  he  confided  to  his 
wife.  He  himself  looked  worn,  but  was  most  ag- 
gressively bright  and  cheerful.  "I  tell  you  that 
husband  of  hers  is  a  brute — just  plain  brute — to  keep 
her  waiting  like  that.  She  was  afraid  she  was  in  the 
way;  but  I  said  to  her :  'Delia,  in  the  little  time  you're 
here  I  want  you  to  use  me,  or  the  place,  in  any  way 
you  can.'  When  I  think  of  what  her  father  did  for 
me!  If  I  have  anything  private  to  talk  over  with  a 
customer  I  can  go  in  the  next  room.  I  tell  you,  she's 
as  plucky  a  little  woman  as  you'll  find.  I  don't 
believe  she'll  get  off  now  before  Monday."  His 
eye  fixed  on  Winifred's.  "  I  admire  Delia  more  than 
any  one  I  know." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  his  wife  heartily. 

Mingled  with  an  amused  consternation  was  a 
tender  pride  in  his  unflinching  courtesy — she  had  cer- 
tainly married  a  gentleman!  She  touched  his  hair 
with  her  light  finger  tips  as  he  went  on,  with  a  change 
of  voice: 

"I  tell  you  I'm  looking  forward  to  a  good  game  to- 
night with  the  Wilmers!  I  wouldn't  urge  Delia 


92          SOME  OP  US  ARE  MARRIED 

to  come  if  I  were  you — she  wants  to  go  straight  to 
bed." 

Though  Mrs.  Bosby  ate  her  dinner  in  silence,  ex- 
cept when  admonishing  Major  to  use  his  handker- 
chief, afterward — when  she  sat  with  the  boy  on  ner 
lap  watching  Winifred  clearing  up,  while  Leslie 
shaved,  whistling,  in  remote  regions — she  roused  her- 
self to  say  that  she  supposed  she  might  as  well  make 
the  effort  to  join  the  party. 

"My  brain  gets  very  tired  thinking  so  much  alone, 
and  I  know  it  would  please  Leslie — dear  fellow — to 
have  me  go.  If  I  can  wear  what  I  have  on — 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Winifred;  later  laying  aside  her 
evening  gown  for  a  plainer  one,  on  Leslie's  delicately 
asking  whether  it  was  not  a  little  too  dressed  up, 
considering  Delia's  lack  of  festive  array.  She  knew 
Leslie  would  have  donned  overalls  if  a  friend  had 
been  reduced  to  that  garb. 

The  game,  perhaps,  failed  of  its  expected  bloom, 
Leslie,  with  Mrs.  Bosby  as  his  partner  for  most  of  the 
evening,  being  painstakingly  occupied  in  telling  her 
when  it  was  her  turn  to  bid,  and  what  took  the  last 
trick,  and  whether  the  make  at  the  beginning  of  the 
hand  had  been  spades  or  no-trumps,  while  their  op- 
ponents merrily  forged  ahead. 

Afterward,  however,  Mrs.  Bosby  proving  abstract- 
edly nonconversational  with  strangers,  he  sat  by  her 
at  supper,  a  little  apart  from  the  jolly,  intimate  crowd, 
affectionately  entertaining  and  protective,  as  she 
evidently  leaned  toward  him  in  spirit;  she  looked 
really  pretty  when  she  talked,  smiling.  Leslie  said 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  93 

almost  defiantly  to  Winifred,  when  they  got  home, 
that  he  had  never  enjoyed  an  evening  more  in  his  life. 

IV 

"WELL,  really,  I  think  it's  an  outrage  that  Wini- 
fred should  have  to  take  care  of  that  boy  all  the  time; 
she  couldn't  even  come  to  the  matinee  with  us  now!" 
Slender,  green-velveted  Mrs.  Wilmer's  hair  was  red 
and  her  tone  had  the  fervid  quality.  "How  long  is 
that  Bosby  woman  going  to  stay?  Don't  get  out 
your  money;  I  always  have  tickets  for  the  Tube." 

Mrs.  Roberts,  a  large,  moving  mass  of  brown  fur 
tails,  replaced  her  perfunctorily  offered  pocketbook 
as  she  hurried  along  with  the  others. 

"Thank  you.  Well,  it  seems  to  me  there's  some- 
thing very  strange  in  her  staying  on  in  this  way  from 
day  to  day — with  a  husband  in  Indianapolis!  I 
should  think  she'd  want  to  go  home  and  get  some 
clothes,  anyway.  Yes,  I  know  they  say  she's  here 

on  business;  but  still Do  you  think  Winifred 

realizes" — Mrs.  Roberts  was  one  of  these  kindly 
women  who  never  think  you  know  anything  about 
your  own  affairs  unless  somebody  tells  you  of  them 
— "how  much  Leslie  and  his  friend  are  together?" 

"  Oh,  goodness !  Of  course  she  realizes, "  responded 
the  pretty  Mrs.  Silverton  carelessly.  "She  doesn't 
mind,  though.  I  think  it's  awfully  tiresome  myself. 
She  says  they've  always  been  like  brother  and  sister." 
Her  tall-feathered  hat  forged  ahead.  "Come  on,  if 
you  don't  want  to  miss  that  train!" 

Though,  indeed,  always  heralding  her  expected 


94          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

flight  on  the  morrow,  after  two  weeks  Mrs.  Bosby 
still  left  the  house  every  morning  with  Leslie  and 
returned  at  night  with  him,  her  dumpy  little  figure 
inclined  toward  his  protective  one  as  they  talked 
earnestly.  She  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
in  the  office,  waiting  for  that  telephone  either  from 
her  husband  or  the  lawyer;  the  latter  sometimes 
called  her  up,  but  the  former  never  did. 

There  seemed  to  be,  also,  an  endless  amount  of 
complications  in  regard  to  title  deeds,  involving  long 
journeys  by  trolley  with  Leslie  to  some  mysteriously 
situated  courthouse,  imposing  without  and  incredibly 
dingy  within,  which,  after  traversing  immense  hall- 
ways, always  turned  out  to  be  the  wrong  courthouse 
—trips  that  necessitated  endless  studying  of  papers 
with  Leslie  in  those  evenings  when  they  stayed  home. 

There  was  a  continued  confusion  and  uncertainty, 
on  receiving  an  invitation,  as  to  whether  it  included 
Mrs.  Bosby,  or  whether  she  would  still  be  there  if  it 
did.  She  was  not,  in  the  slang  parlance  of  the  day,  a 
mixer;  wherever  they  went  she  fell  tacitly  to  Leslie's 
sole  lot.  If  her  bridge  playing  was  bad,  her  dancing 
was  even  worse;  small  woman  though  she  was  and 
graceful  ordinarily,  she  seemed  weighted  with  lead; 
her  feet  clung  to  the  floor.  No  man  asked  her  as 
a  partner  a  second  time;  but  Leslie  fox-trotted 
with  her  heroically  and  sat  out  the  intervals,  affec- 
tionately conversational,  the  smile  she  always  had 
for  him  lighting  her  pale  face. 

The  pile  of  magazines  lay  untouched  on  the  table 
at  home;  the  intimate,  haphazard  intercourse  with 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  95 

the  Wilmers  and  Bannards  and  Silvertons  was  im- 
perceptibly cut  off.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Bosby  took 
Major  to  town  for  the  day,  and  they  seemed  to  make 
a  tour  of  the  shops;  but  he  was  usually  left  in  Wini- 
fred's hands  except  when  kind  Mrs.  Brentwood 
helped  her  out. 

Winifred  was  sorry  for  the  little  fellow;  but  despite 
his  ostensible  goodness,  he  proved  to  have  annoying 
ways.  Sweet  things  disappeared  in  the  most  astound- 
ing quantities;  as  stated,  indeed,  by  the  cheerful 
Irish  Ellen  who  had  taken  the  place  of  the  gloomy 
Minna,  you  couldn't  keep  a  thing  hid  from  that  young 
limb.  He  as  often  left  little  Matilda  howling  as 
amused  her,  and  he  would  scuff  his  feet  along  the 
new  floors;  even  the  poor  child's  caresses  were  per- 
vaded by  the  fact  that  he  hadn't  used  his  handker- 
chief. 

It  was  impossible,  perhaps,  not  to  resent  somewhat 
that  Mrs.  Bosby  seldom  noticed  little  Matilda. 
When  Delia  occasionally  talked  to  Winifred,  how- 
ever, she  had  a  certain  charm,  in  contrast  to  her  usual 
vague,  harassed  air  of  abstraction. 

Leslie's  ardour  never  flinched;  he  was  as  affection- 
ate, as  scrupulously  kind,  as  ever,  and  eVen  more  in- 
sistent on  the  fact  of  how  much  they  enjoyed  Delia's 
visit,  narrowly  watchful  of  any  hint  of  dissent  from 
Winifred.  Yet  there  was  a  change  in  him.  He  was, 
though  controlledly,  tense  to  a  degree;  little  things 
irritated  him  unaccountably — Major's  scuffing  feet 
and  sniffle,  for  instance.  He  almost  shunned  his 
wife,  seeming,  in  their  moments  alone,  separated 


96          SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

from  her  as  by  a  wall  of  glass,  either  too  sleepy  to 
talk  or  frustratingly  monosyllabic,  with  the  warning 
to  her  not  to  speak  so  loud.  If  she  knew  that  the 
state  of  things  was  being  commented  on  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood she  felt  an  arrogant  disregard  of  it  in  his 
behalf. 

Husbands  and  wives,  like  children,  have  their 
streaks  of  being  "good";  this  was  one  of  Winifred's. 
She  had  a  carelessly  proud,  unalterable  faith  in  her 
husband's  faith,  too  intimately  personal  to  be  form- 
ulated: he  was  Leslie!  Exasperating  as  the  situation 
was,  she  felt  a  tender,  half-humorous,  half-admiring 
indulgence  of  his  state  of  mind,  even  though  she  could 
not  sympathize  with  it;  she  knew  that  Leslie's  friend 
had  to  be  sacred! 

For  a  moment,  indeed,  one  afternoon,  the  sense 
of  Mrs.  Bosby's  presence  in  her  husband's  office  sent 
a  lightning  flash  of  jealousy  through  her,  which 
seemed  to  whelm  her  even  for  that  instant  in  a  flash 
of  choking  horror,  where  every  sense  writhed  in  tor- 
ment. She  struggled  out  of  it  instantly,  and  reached 
the  clear,  sunlit  world  again  with  an  inexpressible 
joy  and  lightness  of  spirit,  in  her  freedom  from  the 
evil  thing. 


IT  WAS  at  the  end  of  the  third  week,  when  the  two 
came  home  from  the  station  one  night  somewhat 
earlier  than  usual.  In  the  first  light  snow  of  the 
season  Mrs.  Bosby's  apparel  showed  thinner  than 
ever. 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  97 

It  was  evident  to  the  most  casual  observer  that 
something  had  happened;  she  looked  as  though  she 
were  crying,  while  Leslie  bent  over  her  solicitously, 
half  supporting  her.  Mrs.  Roberts  and  the  Silver- 
tons  walked,  unseen,  behind. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  asked  Winifred  curiously  of 
her  husband  as  Mrs.  Bosby,  calling  Major  on  her 
way,  disappeared  in  her  own  room. 

Leslie  spread  out  his  hands  as  though  uncon- 
sciously to  keep  his  wife  away,  and  mechanically 
dropped  into  a  chair;  he  looked  tense  and  haggard. 

"It's  hot  as  the  deuce  in  here.  Open  the  window 
— she  can't  feel  the  draft  here." 

"Yes,  she  will.     But  what  is  it,  dear?" 

"She's  had  an  awful  time  to-day — she  won't  get 
a  thing  from  those  lots;  and  she  had  a  letter  from  her 
husband  this  afternoon.  That  man's  a  bad  egg;  he 
won't  give  her  a  cent.  We  were  all  at  a  consultation 
in  the  directors'  room  when  Miss  Connolly  came 
running  over  for  me.  .  .  .  They  had  Delia 
lying  out  on  the  floor.  I  got  her  quiet  after  a  while. 
.  .  .  She  can't  go  back  to  him — that's  certain. 
I  told  her  of  course  you'd  want  her  to  make  her  home 
with  us  as  long  as  she  needed  it." 

"But,  Leslie- 

" Don't  you  want  Delia?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Winifred  hurriedly.  She  strove 
for  ground  to  stand  on.  "But  don't  you  think  it 
would  be  better  if  she  had  some  other  place  to  wait 
in  besides  your  office?"  she  hazarded,  and  stopped 
as  he  put  up  his  hand  impatiently. 


98  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course!  Don't  speak  so  loud.  I 
told  her  that  last  week,  and  she  spoke  at  once  of  the 
Young  Women's  Christian  Association.  She  doesn't 
want  to  stay  in  the  office.  Well,  I'm  glad,  at  any 
rate,  to  do  what  I  can  for  poor  little  Delia — when  I 
think  of  what  her  father  did  for  me.  Great  Scott!" 
The  sound  of  Major's  slippers  scuffing  down  the 
stairs  became  apparent.  "Can't  that  child  ever 
lift  his  feet?" 

"Hush!    Don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  Winifred. 

Mrs.  Bosby  was  red-eyed;  she  looked  paler  and 
plumper  than  ever  in  the  invariable  brown  skirt 
and  lace  waist,  but  she  seemed  to  retain  her  compos- 
ure with  difficulty.  Winifred  could  not  help  feeling 
really  sorry  for  her  as  the  meal  progressed. 

"I  hear  you  had  bad  news  to-day,"  she  ventured 
sympathetically . 

Mrs.  Bosby's  voice  was  tremulous. 

"Yes.  My  brain  is  very  tired.  My  husband's 
letter — it  was  most  insulting!  If  it  were  not  for 
Leslie — such  a  dear,  true  friend  as  he  is — I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done.  I  will  never  go 
back  with  Major  until  his  father  consents  to  my 
terms." 

Little  Major  nodded. 

"My  papa  thinks  a  lot  of  me — that  is  why  my 
mamma  always  gets  what  she  wants,"  he  asserted 
gently. 

"You  don't  say  you  are  still  at  dinner!  We 
finished  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  a  voice  in  the  door- 
way— no  other  thaii  that  of  Mrs.  Roberts,  in  a  won- 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  99 

derful  lace  evening  cap,  with  crimson  bows  on  each 
side  like  blinders,  her  large  form  wrapped  in  a  long 
purple  cloak. 

Mrs.  Roberts,  after  four  years  of  neighbouring 
with  the  Leslie  Iversons,  was  invariably  surprised 
that  they  hadn't  finished  dinner. 

"Now  don't  get  up — anybody;  please  don't  get  up! 
I  can't  sit  down;  I  can't  stay  a  moment.  Mr. 
Roberts  is  outside,  with  the  Wilmers,  hi  a  taxi;  we 
are  on  our  way  over  to  the  Ridge.  I  just  stopped 
in  for  a  second  to  inquire  about  Mrs.  Bosby.  Mr. 
Wilmer  said  she  had  such  a  terrible  time  in  the  office 
to-day;  it  made  quite  an  excitement,  everybody  was 
talking  about  it.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  downstairs, 
Mrs.  Bosby." 

"Oh,  she's  much  better,"  said  Winifred  cheerfully. 
"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  stop  in." 

"Oh,  my  dear — one  can  do  so  little!  You're  not 
going  over  to  the  Laurences'?  I  thought  every- 
body was  invited.  Good-bye!  Now,  Mr.  Iverson, 
don't  come  out  with  me;  go  on  with  your  dinner. 
Don't  come  out — really!  Well— 

They  did  go  on  with  the  dinner,  but  with  an  added 
interruption  in  the  door  of  the  butler's  pantry,  which 
developed  a  squeak  necessitating  the  immediate 
application  of  oil  by  Leslie.  The  door  still  squeaked. 
It  was  found,  after  violently  swinging  it  to  and  fro, 
that  it  would  not  latch — it  was  in  some  way  out  of 
plumb,  though  the  carpenter  had  been  there  only  the 
Week  before  to  put  a  new  lock  on  it. 

The  whole  evening  resolved  itself  into  a  grim  strug- 


100         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

gle  on  the  part  of  Leslie,  his  coat  removed,  with  that 
door;  it  was  taken  off  its  hinges  and  laid  flat,  regard- 
less of  Ellen  and  outgoing  dishes;  it  was  whittled, 
and  planed  with  a  plane  commandeered  from  a 
neighbour,  and  measured  and  hung,  and  taken  down 
again,  and  the  lock  pried  off  and  put  on  again,  with 
more  planing  and  much  losing  and  finding  of  screws. 

Beads  stood  on  Leslie's  forehead  as  he  worked  in  a 
tense  silence,  save  for  an  occasional  savage,  muttered 
reference  to  workmen  who  did  not  understand  their 
business;  while  Mrs.  Bosby,  papers  in  hand,  in  the 
invariable  brown  skirt  and  shirtwaist,  her  plump 
face  very  pale,  wandered  in  and  out  unnoticed,  finally 
seating  herself  resignedly  on  the  sofa  in  the  other 
room  and  replying  monosyllabically  to  Winifred's 
remarks.  She  was  the  sort  of  guest  who  never  opens 
a  book.  When  after  a  two-hours'  struggle  the  door 
was  rehung — still  out  of  plumb! — Leslie  only  came 
in  to  say  tersely,  though  kindly: 

'* You'd  better  go  to  bed,  Delia;  you're  tired." 
And  she  obeyed,  with  eyes  that  meekly  waited  on 
his. 

He  did  not  speak  to  his  wife,  except  when  it  was 
necessary,  barely  kissing  her  good-night. 

This  state  of  things  could  not  last  any  longer — it 
simply  could  not;  yet  what  was  Winifred  to  do?  As 
she  lay  on  her  pillow  a  long  line  of  months,  perhaps 
years,  seemed  to  stretch  out  before  her,  weighted 
down  with  Mrs.  Bosby  and  the  care  of  the  boy.  She 
could  not  keep  imposing  him  on  her  mother!  How 
could  the  visitor  be  got  rid  of?  She  must  be  got 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  101 

rid  of!  Yet  how,  with  Leslie  so  obstinately,  so 
sacrificially,  a  friend? 

If  she  could  only  talk  the  situation  over  with  him 
plainly — make  up  her  mind  to  break  through  that 
guard  he  kept  round  the  subject — tell  him,  no  matter 
how  he  felt  about  his  old  Mrs.  Bosby,  it  wasn't  fair 
to  her!  She  felt  tired  of  achieving  that  painful  asset 
called  character.  She  wanted  to  put  out  her  small 
dimpled  arm  and  shake  him,  and  scream  to  him  to 
wake  up  and  listen  to  what  she  had  to  say;  but  in  the 
very  midst  of  this  growing  storm  of  passion  some 
power  seemed  to  hold  on  to  her  warningly,  to  steady 
her  almost  in  spite  of  herself. 

To  break  this  silence  would,  she  knew  instinctively, 
shatter  something  else — the  delicate  crystal  of  the 
lamp  that  held  the  flame  of  love,  which  could  not  be 
made  perfect  again,  no  matter  how  neatly  it  might 
be  mended.  If  her  husband  sacrificed  her  thus  it 
was  because,  after  the  manner  of  men,  he  felt  her  to 
be  one  with  himself. 

If  Mrs.  Bosby  had  to  stay  until  an  earthquake  re- 
moved her — she  had  to;  that  was  all  there  was  about 
it.  The  quivering  of  Winifred's  red  lips  gradually 
ceased,  her  dark  eyes  looked  more  steadily  into  the 
darkness — she  even  found  herself  smiling  unaccount- 
ably. But  the  night  was  not  to  be  a  peaceful  one. 
Mrs.  Bosby  knocked  at  the  door  an  hour  later  to 
say  that  Major  was  ill. 

He  was,  indeed,  very  sick  and  in  great  pain,  with 
more  and  more  evidences  incontinently  of  purloined 
food — mince  pie,  nuts,  chocolates,  grapes,  and  the 


102         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

like — a  poor  little  pale-lipped,  shivering  culprit  with 
a  gasping  courage  during  paroxysms,  though  futilely 
protesting  that  Ellen  had  forced  these  dainties  on 
him. 

The  doctor  was  telephoned  for;  everybody  was 
hurrying  round  in  wrappers,  consulting,  heating 
water,  and  bringing  up  needed  articles.  Mrs. 
Bosby,  two  long  braids  down  her  back,  in  a  shapeless 
brown  robe  open  at  her  white  throat,  worked  over 
Major.  All  her  abstraction  had  vanished;  she  was 
alert,  capable,  maternal — nay,  more;  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  expression  that  puzzled.  Her  eyes  took 
on  a  singular  light,  even  in  the  midst  of  anxiety,  that 
seemed  to  grow  more  peacefully  exalted.  It  was 
nearly  morning  when  little  Major,  after  crying  out 
that  he  wanted  his  papa,  at  last  slept. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  get  some  rest  now,  Mrs.  Bosby," 
said  Winifred,  as  they  parted. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Bosby. 

She  took  Leslie's  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
regardless  of  his  quick,  shamefaced,  protesting, 
"Now,  Delia!"  as  she  murmured: 

"Such  a  friend  as  Leslie  has  always  been!  He  has 
heart.  You  don't  mind  my  saying  that,  Mrs. 
Iverson?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Winifred,  with  emphasis. 

The  visitor  wore  the  same  high  and  serene  look 
the  next  day,  which,  save  for  a  trip  to  the  telegraph 
office  later,  she  spent  in  looking  after  the  child.  She 
even  entertained  little  Matilda  winningly  with  the 
invalid,  who  recovered  rapidly.  Leslie  stayed  down 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  103 

late  at  the  office  to  finish  some  important  business; 
he  seemed  very  tired  and  taciturn;  his  eyes  shunned 
his  wife's,  though  he  had  a  few  moments'  murmured 
conversation  with  Delia,  the  latter  radiantly  earnest. 

When  she  went  to  town  the  next  morning  she  took 
Major  with  her,  leaving  Winifred  to  fly  forcefully 
round  the  house,  like  a  small  embodied  Wild  West 
wind,  hurling  things  into  place,  cleaning  the  guests' 
room,  and  putting  up  the  winter  curtains  there — 
Ellen  scurrying  before  her  with  mops  and  pails  and 
stepladder. 

Mrs.  Brentwood  came  over  for  her  granddaughter — 
who  was  being  hustled  into  outdoor  apparel — with 
eyes  that  kindly  questioned,  though  she  said  nothing 
when  Winifred  announced  that  the  visitors  would 
perhaps  be  with  them  a  week  or  two  more.  And 
over  the  telephone  and  in  person  Mrs.  Iverson  un- 
flinchingly accepted  invitations,  or  engaged  tickets  for 
the  three  of  them  for  Mrs.  Wilmer's  dance  the  next 
night,  and  the  Relief  Fund  bridge  party  on  Friday, 
and  the  Zanzibar  Exhibition  for  the  unemployed, 
and  the  Crandalls'  New  England  supper,  the  next 
week,  for  the  War  Sufferers. 

You  had  to  go  to  the  Crandalls'  New  England 
suppers  because  you  liked  Nell  and  Will  so  much, 
even  though  you  went  as  a  sufferer  yourself,  their 
beans  and  doughnuts  being  always  of  an  abnormal 
pallor.  Winifred  also  paid  two  calls  in  the  afternoon, 
in  white  gloves  and  her  best  clothes,  insensibly  hedg- 
ing one  round  from  too  informal  approach,  and  cas- 
ually mentioned  Mrs.  Bosby's  prolonged  visit.  She 


104         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

was  still  keyed  up  when  she  got  home,  though  a  little 
fatigued,  and.  it  being  Ellen's  day  out,  with  the  din- 
ner to  get. 

Putting  on  an  old  pink  frock,  after  Matilda  was 
bathed  and  put  to  bed,  damp  and  rosy,  with  little 
clinging  arms — one's  own  child  was  a  joy ! — she  com- 
pleted her  preparations  and  still  had  time  to  spare — 
and  more  yet!  It  was  late  for  little  Major  to  be 
abroad.  It  grew  later  and  later;  yet  they  did  not 
come.  I 

It  was  very  strange!  Had  anything  happened? 
A  wild  thrill  of  anxiety  went  through  her.  You 
always  thought  things  could  not  happen;  but  they 
did!  Why  had  not  Leslie  telephoned?  Oh,  there 
was  the  telephone  ringing  now!  She  ran  toward 
it  joyfully. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  dear?" 

"Hello!"  said  a  deep  voice  at  the  other  end. 
"  Hello !  Is  this  Mrs.  Iverson  ?  This  is  Mr.  Roberts, 
Mrs.  Iverson.  Is  Leslie  home  yet?  Well,  will  you 
ask  him  to  call  me  up  as  soon  as  he  gets  in?  Thank 
you.  I  want  to  ask  him  about  the  Municipal  Rally. 
.  .  .  Why,  you  don't  need  to  be  anxious  at  all, 
Mrs.  Iverson.  Mrs.  Roberts  met  him  going  to  din- 
ner at  the  Venetia  with  Mrs.  Bosby  this  evening. 
Mrs.  Roberts  says  she  supposed,  of  course,  you  knew. 
.  .  .  Well,  perhaps  they've  gone  to  a  show  since 
— in  that  case.  .  .  .  Yes.  Good-night!" 

Gone  to  dinner  with  Mrs.  Bosby  without  taking 
the  trouble  to  let  her  know!  This  was  too  much — 
to  spend  his  evenings  off  with  her!  To  all  feminine 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  105 

suburbanites  the  little  dinner  in  town,  with  lights  and 
music,  and  food  with  which  one  has  had  no  previous 
connection,  strikes  the  most  intimate  note  of  fes- 
tivity. They  had  not  thought  they  could  afford  the 
Venetia  lately! 

Winifred  sat  enveloped  in  a  strange  confusion; 
the  dinner  dried  up  in  the  oven  unnoticed.  .  .  . 
Another  hour  rolled  by.  If  they  had  gone  to  a 

show She  was  thinking  so  hard  that  the  sound 

of  her  husband's  key  in  the  lock  made  her  jump; 
but  she  sat  still,  only  saying: 

"Has  Mrs.  Bosby  taken  a  cab  from  the  station?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  throwing  open  a  window  in 
the  hall  before  coming  in. 

The  night  was  muggy  and  warm;  that  might  ac- 
count for  his  jaded  appearance.  He  mopped  a  damp 
brow  under  his  fair  hair  as  he  seated  himself  across 
the  room,  his  legs  stretched  out  to  an  abnormal 
length;  tired  as  he  was,  there  was  a  strange,  unwonted 
glint  in  his  eye  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  Delia's  gone  home." 

"Gone!" 

He  nodded. 

"Yes;  with  the  boy.  I  just  got  them  off  on  the 
last  train.  You're  to  parcel-post  her  bag  after  her. 
She  left  good-bye  for  you.  Her  husband  'phoned  her 
this  morning,  as  soon  as  he  heard  that  Major  was 
ill — he's  crazy  over  the  child! — he'll  give  her  any- 
thing she  wants.  Gee,  I'm  tired! "  His  voice  grew 
insensibly  louder  and  louder.  "I  was  running  round 
all  the  afternoon  trying  to  straighten  out  things  for 


106         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

her;  I  never  got  back  to  the  office  at  all.  I  went 
nearly  crazy!  We  had  to  stop  for  her  coat  the  last 
thing — it  had  to  be  altered.  She'd  picked  it  out 
before,  but  she  tried  on  a  lot  of  others  afterward  to 
be  sure  she  liked  the  first  one  best." 

"Her  coat?" 

"Yes — the  sealskin;  her  husband  said  she  could 
have  it — that  was  what  she  was  standing  out  for, 
you  know.  It  cost  him  a  thousand,  but  she  says 
he  can  afford  it."  Leslie  shifted  his  gaze,  but  still 
kept  on:  "She  can't  keep  warm  in  anything  but  fur 
out  there;  the  winters  are  so  cold.  You  know  how 
sensitive  her  throat  is." 

"Oo-ooh!"  said  Winifred,  in  a  tone  of  profound 
enlightenment. 

So  that  had  been  Mr.  Bosby's  barbarity  to  his 
wife — refusing  her  a  thousand-dollar  coat.  But 
Mrs.  Bosby  was  actually  gone !  There  was  a  growing 
intoxicating  essence  of  freedom  in  the  thought. 
Winifred  raised  her  voice: 

"Leslie,  why  on  earth  didn't  you  telephone 
me?" 

"I  did.  Ellen  said  you  were  out  and  I  left  the 
message  with  her;  she  said  she'd  write  it  down." 

"She  went  before  I  came  in.  I  never  thought  to 
look  on  the  shelf." 

"Oh!"  He  rose  after  a  pause,  shut  the  window, 
and  came  lazily  over  to  her,  that  glint  in  his  eye  even 
more  apparent.  "I  like  that  pink  frock  you  have  on 
— don't  ever  wear  brown!  Do  you  know  I  haven't 
kissed  you  since  I  got  home?" 


LESLIE'S  FRIEND  107 

"Yes;  and  you're  not  going  to  now,"  returned 
Winifred  with  spirit,  drawing  out  of  reach. 
"I'm  not?" 

"No.  Keep  away!  I  tell  you  I  won't  be  kissed. 
j " 

She  fended  off  his  arm  and,  slipping  by,  dashed 
up  the  stairs,  with  him  after  her,  racing  through  one 
room  after  another,  with  small  shrieks  and  loud 
banging  of  doors  until  he  caught  her  finally,  breath- 
less. 

"You're  scandalous!  You're  not  behaving  like  a 
wife  at  all,"  he  admonished  her  fondly. 

"I  don't  feel  like  one." 

"You  don't!  You— don't!  Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

His  lips  were  pressed  to  her  lips,  her  soft  cheek, 
her  soft  hair,  again  and  again  and  again,  with  a  new 
fervour  in  them.  His  voice  took  on  a  fuller  note  as 
he  pushed  her  head  back  at  last,  so  that  he  could  look 
into  her  lovely  eyes. 

"You — don't — know — what  a  darling — what  a 
darling  you  are!  You  don't  half  know  it.  But  I  do, 
dear;  I  do,  my  sweetest!" 

"Oh,"  said  Winifred  dreamily,  leaning  closer  to 
him.  "Doesn't  it  seem  too  heavenly  to  have  the 
house  to  ourselves!" 

"I  should  think  so,"  he  breathed.  "Oh,  I  should 
think  so!"  He  straightened  involuntarily  as  he 
added,  like  one  who  has  caught  himself  up  unflinch- 
ingly: "Though,  of  course,  we'll  miss  Delia  and  the 
boy.  She  thinks  you're  fine!  I  said  to  her:  'Delia, 


108      [  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

I  never  enjoyed  anything  more  than  your  visit:  I 
hope  you'll  come  again  soon  and  stay  twice  as  long/ 

When  I  think  of  what  her  father What's  the 

joke,  you  crazy  girl?     Look  out You'll  scare 

Matilda!" 


THE  WONDER-WORKER 

HELLO!  hello!— Is  this  Mrs.  Wilmer?— Yes, 
it's  Winifred. — Oh,  Clementine!  I've  been 
wanting  to  ask  you  and  Jack  for  Thursday. 
I'm  giving  a  little  dance  for  Katharine  Coates; 
she's  visiting  me. — Oh,  you  must  remember  her; 
she  was  one  of  my  bridesmaids. — Yes,  the  tall, 
classical  one  with  the  wonderful  hair. — Oh,  I'm  going 
to  wear  my  wedding  dress. — Yes,  as  festal  as  that ! — 
Well,  it's  my  first  party  since  I  was  married.  I'm  so 
excited  about  it  I  don't  know  what  to  do. — Leslie 
is  making  the  grandest  preparations,  and  everyone 
has  shown  so  much  interest.  Mrs.  Paxton  is  going 
to  lend  us  her  palms  and  the  boys  are  to  get  us  big 
dogwood  branches. — Thank  you  so  much,  but  1 
think  we  shall  have  enough  without  the  rubber  plant. 
— Thank  you,  I  do  hope  it  will  be  a  success.  We  are 
going  to  have  plenty  of  men,  anyway.  I'll  see  you 
Thursday,  then. — Good-bye." 

"Well,  that's  settled!"  Young  Mrs.  Iverson 
turned  from  the  telephone  to  her  husband,  a  tall, 
fair,  pleasant-faced  young  man  who  sat  in  an  arm- 
chair, looking  over  the  pages  of  a  magazine  as  he 
smoked  his  pipe.  She  dropped  down  in  a  seat  be- 
side him,  her  dark  eyes  alight.  "It's  really  wonder- 
ful— not  one  refusal!  Put  down  your  book,  dear; 

109 


110         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

as  long  as  Katharine  has  gone  up  to  write  a  letter  we 
might  as  well  consult  about  the  last  things  now.  I 
hate  to  ask  you  to  bring  out  anything  more;  you've 
been  so  awfully  good  about  it — the  lanterns  you 
bought  are  perfectly  fine;  but  I  find  I  won't  have  a 
minute,  so — 

"All  right,"  said  her  husband,  with  alacrity,  fling- 
ing down  the  magazine  and  taking  a  pencil  and  enve- 
lope from  his  pocket.  "Go  ahead." 

"Well,  then,  we  ought  to  have  a  chimney  for  the 
big  rose-coloured  lamp — I  can't  get  it  here,  and  it 
looks  much  nicer  with  that  lighted." 

"Yes,  it  does.  I'll  take  the  top  in  to  be  fitted,  if 
you'll  wrap  it  up  in  paper  for  me." 

"And  if  you  could  get  a  dozen  more  lemonade 
glasses — any  kind  will  do." 

Mr.  Iverson's  brow  puckered  thoughtfully.  "  Don't 
you  think  it  would  be  better  to  have  them 
matched?  If  we  need  a  set,  why  don't  we  get 
them?" 

"All  right,  if  you  are  willing  to  spend  the  money. 
I'll  show  you  what  we  have.  Then,  will  you  tele- 
phone to  Guidelli's  for  three  pounds  of  their  little 
fancy  cakes?  Or  three  and  a  half " 

"Better  say  four."  He  laid  down  the  pencil  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  considering  expression.  "I  was 

going  to  ask  you How  would  you  like  some 

game  pates?  They  make  'em  to  order  in  a  little 
French  place  where  I  go  to  dinner  sometimes — man 
makes  a  specialty  of  'em.  He  took  me  down  in  the 
kitchen  one  day  and  introduced  rne  to  his  wife;  nice 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  111 

little  woman  as  you  want  to  meet.  You  could  see 
your  face  in  the  coppers  and  things." 

"  Well—  Winifred  considered  in  her  turn,  with 

a  swift  yet  tender  gleam  of  amusement  as  she  looked 
at  him.  Leslie  made  friends  everywhere;  the  small, 
stubby  members  of  the  new  Boys'  Club  over  at  the 
Ridge  already  hailed  him  almost  as  intimately  as  the 
whilom  college  chums,  who  were  always  enthusiasti- 
cally looking  him  up  and  luring  him  off  on  their  affairs. 
Winifred  had  sometimes  suffered  a  pang  of  jealousy 
at  his  devotion  to  his  Alma  Mater.  "We  don't 
need  the  pates.  Still,  they  would  be  something 
different." 

"Oh,  we  might  as  well  have  a  good  spread  while 
we're  about  it,"  announced  Mr.  Iverson.  "Any- 
thing more  to  suggest?" 

"No,  that's  all,  I  think.  Oh,  I  hope  the  party 
will  be  a  success!" 

"No  fear  of  that.  But  hadn't  you  better  see  now 
what  Miss  Coates  is  doing?  I  want  to  finish  this 
story." 

"Leslie,  how  many  times  have  I  told  you  that  she 
expects  you.  to  call  her  Katharine?  Don't  you  like 
her?" 

"Why,  I  like  her  well  enough;  but  she  seems  sort 
of  far  away  all  the  time."  His  voice  sank.  "She 
isn't  in  love,  is  she?" 

Winifred  looked  at  him.  "She  hasn't  told  me 
anything  yet.  Hush,  here  she  is  now.  Come  over 
here  on  the  sofa  by  me,  Katharine.  Leslie,  you  may 
go  upstairs  and  finish  your  story,  if  you  want  to. 


112         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Everything's  settled,  dear.  The  Wilmers  are  com- 
ing, and  Leslie  is  going  to  see  about  the  last  things 
for  me." 

"Really,  he  is  wonderful,"  said  Miss  Coates,  in  a 
lovely  contralto  voice.  She  was  a  singularly  beauti- 
ful girl,  with  a  sort  of  untouchable  crystalline  fresh- 
ness in  her  yellow  hair  and  yellow  attire,  as  of  spun 
glass.  She  had  the  air  of  a  royal  princess,  with, 
however,  a  shade  of  pensiveness  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she 
wasn't  getting  all  she  should.  "I  never  saw  a  man 
who  was  willing  to  take  so  much  trouble — and  he 
does  everything  so  well!" 

Winifred  nodded,  with  the  expression  of  pride  on 
her  small,  glowing  face.  "That's  what  everyone 
says.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  I 
had  had  a  husband  like  Audrey's."  Audrey  was 
her  younger  sister.  "Grattan  is  awfully  nice,  of 
course,  but  she  never  can  trust  to  his  doing  any- 
thing; he  always  forgets.  Leslie — everybody  says 

it  won't  last,  but "  Her  voice  trailed  off  into 

silence. 

It  was  her  secret  that  she  was  really  giving  the 
party,  not  for  Katharine,  but  for  her-  Jiusband.  It 
was  a  terrible  amount  of  trouble,  with  a  little  child 
hi  the  house,  and  an  incompetent  maid,  even  with 
the  proffered  aid  of  her  mother  and  sister,  and  she 
really  didn't  care  much  about  dancing  anyway;  but 
he  was  so  thoroughly  and  hospitably  interested  when 
she  suggested  it  that  she  felt  quite  tender  over  his 
enjoyment;  he  had  a  social  talent  denied  to  her  earn- 
estness. 


THE  WONDER-WORKER 


113 


Winifred  Iverson  had  been  submerged,  by  marri- 
age, in  her  domestic  and  civic  duties;  she  not  only 
kept  house  with  unwearying  devotion  to  detail  and 
took  care  of  little  Matilda  with  incessant  harrowed 
painstaking,  but  she  was  also  deep  in  the  Consumers' 
League,  by  telephone,  with  women  twice  her  age. 
Leslie  was  always  kind  and  affectionate;  he  fetched 
and  carried;  he  adored  his  baby  girl;  and  he  went  into 
another  room  evenings,  with  his  book,  when  his  wife 
telephoned  interminabl 


his  unfeigned  enjoyment  and  her  own.  This  party 
was  her  crowning  effort.  It  touched  her  that  he  was 
so  interested. 

Now  she  went  on  impulsively :  "  Leslie  is  so  artistic ! 
Most  people  here  don't  take  the  trouble  to  decorate 
their  rooms,  they  just  move  out  the  furniture;  but 


112         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Everything's  settled,  dear.  The  Wilmers  are  com- 
ing, and  Leslie  is  going  to  see  about  the  last  things 
for  me." 

11 ----JiaJs  wonderful,"  said  Miss  Coates,  in  a 

iti- 


thing;  iiv,  «-*««,.,_  „ 

it   won't   last,  but "    Her  voice  trailed  off  into 

silence. 

It  was  her  secret  that  she  was  really  giving  the 
party,  not  for  Katharine,  but  for  her-  husband.  It 
was  a  terrible  amount  of  trouble,  with  a  little  child 
in  the  house,  and  an  incompetent  maid,  even  with 
the  proffered  aid  of  her  mother  and  sister,  and  she 
really  didn't  care  much  about  dancing  anyway;  but 
he  was  so  thoroughly  and  hospitably  interested  when 
she  suggested  it  that  she  felt  quite  tender  over  his 
enjoyment;  he  had  a  social  talent  denied  to  her  earn- 
estness. 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  113 

Winifred  Iverson  had  been  submerged,  by  marri- 
age, in  her  domestic  and  civic  duties;  she  not  only 
kept  house  with  unwearying  devotion  to  detail  and 
took  care  of  little  Matilda  with  incessant  harrowed 
painstaking,  but  she  was  also  deep  in  the  Consumers' 
League,  by  telephone,  with  women  twice  her  age. 
Leslie  was  always  kind  and  affectionate;  he  fetched 
and  carried;  he  adored  his  baby  girl;  and  he  went  into 
another  room  evenings,  with  his  book,  when  his  wife 
telephoned  interminably.  The  Brentwoods,  WTini- 
fred's  family,  when  they  didn't  like  anything,  "just 
banged  away,"  as  Audrey  expressed  it;  it  had  taken 
Winifred  some  time  to  realize  that  Leslie  never 
"banged."  If  she  didn't  want  to  do  as  he  quietly 
suggested,  he  "let  it  go  at  that";  but  there  were 
slight  gradations  which  after  a  while  she  began  to 
perceive.  When  the  dancing  craze  came  up  he  got 
in  the  habit  of  dropping  in  at  one  or  other  of  the 
neighbour's  for  an  hour,  when  she  was  too  busy  to  go 
with  him;  he  entertained  his  college  friends  in  town. 
People  began  telling  her  the  next  day  how  much  they 
enjoyed  seeing  him,  as  if  she  had  missed  something. 
All  of  a  sudden  she  began  to  get  tired  of  living  so 
strenuously  for  duty;  she  wanted  to  enjoy  his  things 
too.  She  began  going  out  with  him  once  more,  to 
his  unfeigned  enjoyment  and  her  own.  This  party 
was  her  crowning  effort.  It  touched  her  that  he  was 
so  interested. 

Now  she  went  on  impulsively :  "  Leslie  is  so  artistic ! 
Most  people  here  don't  take  the  trouble  to  decorate 
their  rooms,  they  just  move  out  the  furniture;  but 


114         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

we  wanted  this  to  be  different.  We  will  have  enough 
men  at  any  rate!" 

"Well  you're  very  fortunate,"  said  Miss  Coates. 
"Where  I've  been  staying,  at  Netherdale,  there  really 
weren't  any  men  at  all." 

"Elsie  Rickland  told  me  the  other  day  of  a  dance 
she  went  to  where  there  were  twice  as  many  girls  as 
men.  But  I  think  too  many  men  are  almost  worse 
than  too  few.  When  Mrs.  Frobisher  gave  that  ball 
last  winter  she  had  so  many  extra  fellows  that  they 
all  simply  went  off  to  the  library  and  smoked  and 
talked  about  boats  and  things — with  the  pretty  girls 
sitting  out  in  the  ballroom !  Clementine  Wilmer  says 
men  always  seem  so  crazy  for  each  other's  society." 

Miss  Coates  laughed.  "They  do  seem  to  be. 
Tell  me  who  is  coming." 

"Let  me  see — I  have  the  list  here.  The  Crandalls 
— you  have  to  ask  them,  they're  so  nice,  though  they 
are  terrible  dancers;  and  the  Bannards,  they're 
darlings;  and  Audrey  and  Grattan,  of  course;  and 
the  Chandors  and  the  Paxtons  and  the  Wilmers — 
those  men  are  all  so  funny  together! — and  Ethel 
Roberts;  I  don't  care  for  her,  she's  so  tactful;  he's 
older,  but  he's  fine.  Then  of  the  new  people  there 
are  the  Carpenters — he's  very  interesting  and  dances 
well — and  the  Silvertons — all  the  men  are  crazy 
over  her;  he  sings  deliciously.  I'm  sorry  there  are 
so  many  married  people,  Katharine." 

"Oh,  that  makes  no  difference,"  interpolated  Miss 
Coates  hastily.  She  took  her  hostess's  hand  in  hers 
with  a  caressing  gesture. 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  115 

"But  I'm  coming  to  the  others.  There  are  the 
Rickland  girls  and  their  brother,  and  Mr.  Roofer 
and  Mr.  Sains — friends  of  Leslie's — the  loveliest 
young  fellows;  I  just  felt  when  they  accepted  that 
the  success  of  the  evening  was  assured.  They  have 
promised  to  bring  their  costumes  and  do  a  stunt  for 
us  after  supper — they're  really  quite  wonderful! — 
and  Mr.  Silverton  has  half  promised  to  sing,  and  Mr. 
Paxton  and  Mr.  Chandor  are  to  give  us  a  Russian 
dance;  it's  excruciatingly  funny!  But  this  is  all 
a  great  secret — we  wanted  something  different  for 
a  surprise.  Then,  of  course "-  —Winifred  paused 
slightly — "there's  Rex  Courtney." 

"Do  I  remember  him — a  tall  man  with  a  dark 
moustache?" 

"Yes.  He  went  away  for  a  while,  but  he's  back 
again.  He  used  to  be  mostly  with  the  married  set; 
but  now — he  looks  a  little  older;  of  course  he  is 
older,  but  he's  terribly  nice.  I  know  you'll  like  him, 
Katharine." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Coates  absently. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"Katharine!"  said  Winifred,  in  a  new  tone.  The 
hand  that  held  hers  closed  over  it  tightly  as  the  girl 
turned  her  head  away.  "There's  something  troub- 
ling you;  I've  seen  it  ever  since  you  came  yesterday. 
Oh,  I  know  you  want  to  enjoy  everything,  but  you 
don't  really.  Darling,  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  so 
unhappy.  Is  it — is  it  about  any  one  you — care  for? 
Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to. — Why,  Katharine! 
You're  not  crying?" 


"Well?"  said  Mr.  Iverson  inquiringly,  some  three 
hours  later,  as  his  wife  came  upstairs  into  the  room 
where  he  was  already  in  pajamas  and  dressing  gown. 
"I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  looked  in 
and  saw  her.  What's  doing?" 

"Hush!  Speak  lower;  you'll  wake  little  Matilda. 
Yes,  she's  in  love.  I  promised  not  to  tell  anybody — 
if  you  don't  stop  whistling  I  won't  say  another  word." 

"All  right;  go  ahead." 

"  She  met  him  at  the  games  last  year  when  she  was 
staying  with  the  Martins — he  was  a  friend  of  their 
friends  from  California.  They  were  together  all  the 
time  for  three  days.  I  think  they  got  pretty  far 
along  myself.  She  says  most  men  are  afraid  of  her, 
but  he  wasn't  at  all.  He  has  black  hair,  and  a  twist 
to  one  eyebrow,  and  his  name  is  'Lige'  Robinson.  Do 
you  know  him?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  he  was  to  come  and  call  on  the  family  when 
she  got  home,  and  he  got  in  wrong  from  the  start. 
She  says  he  showed  too  much  that  he  really  wanted 
to  talk  to  her.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that  they  were 
all  perfectly  down  on  him;  they  criticized  his  appear- 
ance and  they  talked  so — the  way  families  do — that 
Katharine  thought  perhaps  she  didn't  really  know 
him.  She  cried  and  cried,  and  she  didn't  meet  him 
in  town  as  she  promised  to,  or  answer  his  letters, 
or  anything;  and  then  he  went  away — she  doesn't 
know  where — and  she's  never  heard  of  him  since. 
But  she  knows  now  that  she  made  a  mistake — she's 
been  feeling  it  more  and  more — knows  that  she  made 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  117 

a  dreadful  mistake,  and  that  he  really  was  all  she 
thought  him,  and  that  she  never  can  care  for  any- 
body else  as  long  as  she  lives,  and  it's  just  killing  her.'* 

"Poor  girl,  I'm  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Iverson, 
rumpling  his  thick,  light  hair.  "I'll  go  downstairs 
and  lock  up." 

"But  I  can't  help  thinking,  Leslie,  if  Rex  Court- 
ney   Oh,  wouldn't  it  be  fine  if  something  like 

that  came  of  our  party?" 

II 

THE  day  before  the  dance  was  filled  with  the  glad 
bustle  of  coming  festivity.  Mrs.  Paxton's  palms 
arrived,  and  the  glass  punch  bowl  from  Nell  Crandall's 
which,  having  been  originally  intended  for  church 
entertainments,  was  happily  large  enough  for  any 
occasion;  Mrs.  Brentwood  brought  over  the  tall 
vases  and  the  green  umbrella  stand  in  the  car,  and 
the  best  lace  table-cover.  At  a  luncheon  party 
given  at  the  Wilmers'  for  Katherine,  the  event  of 
the  morrow  was  frequently  referred  to — it  was  nicely 
realized  that  it  was  an  event.  The  newest  gowns 
were  in  order,  Mrs.  Wilmer  waiting  anxiously  for 
hers  to  come  from  the  dressmaker.  Mrs.  Roberts 
had  had  her  hair  washed  that  very  morning,  and  Mrs. 
Carpenter  was  to  have  her  neck  massaged. 

Winifred  could  hardly  wait  for  Leslie's  arrival 
home  to  tell  him  about  everything;  but  when  she 
ran  down  excitedly  to  greet  him  she  stopped  short 
as  she  saw  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked  fearfully. 


118         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Nothing;  don't  be  scared.     It's  only  that  I  find 
I  can't  be  here  for  to-morrow  night." 
"What?" 

"Now,  wait.  I  got  word  to-day  that  the  boys — 
you  know  I  expected  them  down  from  Amherst 
a  month  ago  and  it  was  put  off — are  to  give  their 
show  over  at  the  Ridge  for  the  Playground  to-morrow 
night."  The  Ridge  was  some  six  or  seven  miles  away. 

"Well,  of  course!  The  notices  have  been  up  all 
the  week." 

He  gave  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  I  never  saw  them ! 
I  promised  Hardwicke  before  he  went  to  Europe  that 
I'd  shoulder  the  thing;  he  and  I  were  the  ones  who 
got  the  boys  to  promise  they'd  do  it.  Of  course 
Laurence — I  communicated  with  him  at  once — has 
the  club  house  in  charge  and  the  posters  and  all  that, 
but  it  doesn't  let  me  out." 

"Can't  you  get  somebody  to  take  your  place?" 

"I  might  have  if  I'd  known  before;  but  it's  too  late 
now.  Hardwicke  and  I  made  it  a  personal  favour  to 
us.  Nothing  but  a  calamity  could  release  me  now. 
I'll  try  to  be  back  before  midnight  if  I  can,  but  don't 
count  on  it.  You'll  just  have  to  get  along  the  best 
you  can  without  me,  that's  all.  I'm  just  as  disap- 
pointed as  you  are,  Win." 

"Oh,  if  it's  anything  to  do  with  your  old  Amherst 
— of  course  everything  else  has  to  go  by  the  board, 
even  I;  that's  sacred!" 

"Don't  say  anything  you'll  be  sorry  for,"  he 
warned  her,  in  the  even  voice  which  she  always 
heeded  perforce, 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  119 

"Very  well,  then,  I  won't;  but  I'll  think  it  just 
the  same!  No,  I  won't,  I  won't!"  She  flung  her 
arms  around  him.  "Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  hate- 
ful, but- 

" Never  mind;  Roofer  and  Sains  will  be  here  to  help 
out,  anyway." 

Ill 

IT  WAS  not  until  the  morning  that  Winifred  fully 
realized  the  awful  vacuum  caused  by  Leslie's  ab- 
sence. The  day  began  in  a  confusing  last  whirl  of 
cleaning  and  sweeping  and  "wiping  down."  Little 
fair-curled  Matilda  had  to  be  got  ready  for  a  twenty- 
foiir-hours'  stay  at  her  proud  grandmother's;  every 
order  from  market  or  bakery  came  minus  its  most 
important  article;  Patrick  appeared  too  soon  to  move 
the  furniture;  and  the  telephone  rang  incessantly, 
as  ever  at  such  times.  Mrs.  Bantry,  who  hadn't 
been  invited,  came  to  call. 

More  serious  matters  intervened.  Mrs.  Chandor 
called  up  to  say  that  Mr.  Chandor  was  obliged  to  go 
on  a  business  trip,  and  could  she  bring  Miss  Prall,  just 
arrived  for  the  night,  in  his  place?  And  Audrey 
telephoned  that,  as  the  infant,  "Bruiser,"  was  ailing 
she  wouldn't  be  able  to  leave  him.  After  luncheon 
horrified  word  went  the  rounds  that  Mr.  Paxton  had 
been  knocked  down  hi  town  and  brought  home 
broken  in  several  places — or  at  least,  by  later  ad- 
vices, suffering  from  a  sprained  ankle  and  shock. 
Later,  Mrs.  Paxton  herself  telephoned  to  say  how 
sorry  Beverly  was  that  he  couldn't  be  at  the  dance, 


120         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

but  he  wanted  her  to  go  anyway,  as  he  would  be 
asleep  all  the  evening. 

"He  and  Mr.  Chandor  are  such  lovely  dancers," 
mourned  Winifred  to  Katharine;  "and  now  we  can't 
have  the  Russian  ballet,  either!  I  hope  nobody 
else  will  fall  out." 

But  at  four  o'clock  the  telephone  rang  again,  with 
Leslie's  voice  at  the  other  end:  "Is  that  you,  Wini- 
fred?" 

"Oh,  Leslie,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  speak!  It's 
been  a  dreadful  day;  so  many  men  falling  out!"  She 
gave  him  a  brief  recital.  "Are  you  coming  home, 
dear,  after  all?" 

"No,  I'm  not  coming  home.  By  the  way,  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  I  left  an  order  for  some  flowers  for 
you  and  Katharine;  I  hope  you  get  them  all  right!" 

"Oh,  that's  dear  of  you!" 

"  But The  fact  is,  Win,  I've  been  trying  to  call 

you  up  ever  since  I  got  in  town,  but  I  haven't  had  a 
moment.  You  all  right,  dear?" 

"Yes,  dear;  what  is  it  you  have  to  say?" 

"Why,  I  haven't  very  good  news.  Sains's  father 
died  suddenly;  he  lived  up  in  the  State  somewhere. 
Sains  is  awfully  cut  up;  Roofer's  gone  on  with  him. 
Roofer  said  how  much  they'd  counted  on  being  at 
your  party;  but  of  course  it  can't  be  helped." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Winifred.  Her  voice  rose 
to  a  wail.  "But  what  am  I  to  do,  Leslie?  If  I'd 

only  known  before I  wish  I'd  never  tried  to 

give  the  old  party — with  all  those  new  people  coming, 
too!" 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  121 

"Cheer  up!  It  will  be  over  this  time  to-morrow," 
said  her  husband.  "Perhaps " 

"What— what?" 

"Nothing.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  don't  try 
to  do  too  much.  Good-bye!" 

She  could  tell  by  the  unconscious  tone  in  his  voice 
that,  sorry  as  he  might  be  for  her,  the  dance,  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned,  had  already  sunk  out  of  sight; 
he  was  going  to  have  a  good  time  in  the  adored 
company  of  men.  She  knew  just  how  everyone 
would  look  when  she  said  he  wouldn't  be  home — 
as  if  he  would  always  take  any  excuse  to  get 
away. 

She  hastened  with  the  dire  news  to  Katharine. 
"Isn't  it  terrible?  We're  simply  hoodooed;  that's 
all  there  is  about  it.  I'll  never  try  to  have  anything 
again." 

"You  worry  too  much.  It's  going  to  be  all  right," 
said  the  friend  consolingly.  Her  cheeks  flushed 
slightly;  her  eyes  bent  hazily  at  Winifred.  "Do  you 
know — I  had  a  strange  dream  last  night.  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  boiling  soup  in  a  tree,  and  a  canary  was 
singing  to  a  bear;  and  there  was  a  rainbow,  and  an 
excursion  train  full  of  people  coming  straight  at  me, 
and  just  as  it  got  near,  the  locomotive  turned  into  a 
ball  and  fell  in  my  lap,  and  on  it  was  his  name!  And 
I  knew  then  that  he  was  coming  to  me.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  it  made  me  feel;  it  was  almost  like  'The 
Brushwood  Boy.'  I  know  it  doesn't  sound  like  any- 
thing, Winifred,  but 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  said  Winifred,  laughing.     She 


122         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

pulled  the  girl  down  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "Oh, 
Katharine,  in  spite  of  your  dignity  and  your  looks, 
you  are  really  a  little  goose." 

At  any  rate,  Rex  Courtney  hadn't  backed  out! 
Even  after  all  the  terrible  disappointments  something 
nice  might  still  happen  for  Katharine. 

IV 

THE  party  began  inauspiciously  after  a  last  'phone 
message  that  Mr.  Carpenter  had  come  home  with 
laryngitis,  and  deeply  regretted  that  he  couldn't 
be  present.  Nell  Crandall  appeared,  as  usual  half 
an  hour  too  soon,  before  one  had  finished  dressing — 
though  you  really  didn't  mind  Nell — and  without 
her  husband,  whom  she  had  left  with  a  raging  tooth ; 
the  details  of  its  pangs  usurped  the  moment.  It 
was  just  as  well  she  had  come  out,  for  opening  his 
mouth  to  tell  her  whether  he  was  better  or  not  simply 
made  him  furious. 

It  was  agreed  that  "men  never  could  stand  pain." 
The  narrative  was  all  gone  over  again  when  pretty, 
slender  Mrs.  Chandor  and  her  friend  arrived,  the 
latter  a  straw-coloured,  silent  person  who  was  said 
to  be  very  nice  when  you  knew  her.  They  sat  in  the 
brilliantly  lighted,  cleared-out  little  drawing  room 
opening  into  the  equally  brilliant  and  cleared-out 
dining  room  with  the  newly  waxed  floors,  the  big  jars 
of  dogwood  everywhere  for  decoration,  while  the 
Japanese  lanterns  on  the  inclosed  piazza,  glimmered 
invitingly  beyond — Winifred  in  her  wedding  gown 
and  Katharine  in  shimmering  green,  the  other  women 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  123 

in  festal  raiment,  equally  experiencing  the  retrospec- 
tive throes  of  toothache,  each  one  contributing  her 
past  experiences  in  that  line. 

The  orgy  was  concluded  only  by  the  addition  of 
plump  and  fair  Mrs.  Paxton,  and  then  the  interest 
merely  swerved  over  to  Mr.  Paxton 's  condition  and 
the  horror  of  automobile  accidents  in  general,  until 
broken  in  its  turn  by  a  batch  of  arrivals — unbeliev- 
ably enough,  all  women — red-haired  Clementine 
Wilmer  in  her  gorgeous  new  dancing  gown;  Mrs. 
Roberts,  elegant  in  cerise  satin  and  perpendicular 
hair-ornament;  the  chiffon-draped,  drooping  Mrs. 
Carpenter,  the  massaged  neck  well  in  evidence; 
Audrey,  scarlet-cheeked  and  glowing.  Amid  much 
laughter  and  surprise  at  the  manless  condition  of 
affairs  the  information  was  spread  that  Mr.  Wilmer 
had  telephoned  that  he  didn't  know  when  he  could 
get  home;  it  had  been  a  dreadful  day  hi  "the  Street" 
— stocks,  as  Mrs.  Wilmer  explained,  having  done 
"  something  or  other  ";  but  she  was  simply  spoiling  for 
a  dance.  Mr.  Roberts  had  had  the  unexpected  ex- 
citement of  a  visit  from  an  old  friend  from  Honolulu, 
to  leave  on  the  morrow — Mr.  Roberts's  wife  had  been 
sure  that  Winifred  would  accept  his  excuses;  they  had 
so  much  to  talk  about.  Audrey  effusively  proclaimed 
that  Grattan  had  insisted  in  staying  himself  with  the 
ailing  Bruiser  so  that  she  could  have  a  change,  and 
"Wasn't  it  too  perfectly  sweet  of  him?  But  where 
is  Leslie?" 

"Why,  he  isn't  going  to  be  here 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  the  wondering 


124  SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

chorus  broke  forth:  "Not  going  to  be  here?'*  "I 
thought  you  said  he  was  so  interested!" 

Winifred's  face  flushed  in  spite  of  her.  "He's 
dreadfully  sorry.  It's  the  night  of  the  Amherst 
show  at  the  Ridge  for  the  Playground,  and  he  feels 
responsible  for  the  boys.  It  was  an  old  engagement, 
but  he  had  mistaken  the  date." 

"But  surely  he  can  leave  early,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
penter eagerly. 

"I'm  hoping  for  it,  but  he  said  he  couldn't  count 
on  it  at  all;  he'll  have  to  see  the  thing  through.  Of 
course  there'll  be  a  supper  or  something  of  that  kind 
for  them  over  there." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  if  he  once  gets  off  with  that  set  you 
won't  see  him  until  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Roberts  as 
one  who  knew.  "But  isn't  it  exactly  like  men?  You 
depend  on  them,  and  they'll  throw  you  over  for  even 
a  business  engagement  every  time.  No  woman 
would  do  that." 

"Yes,  she  would,"  said  Audrey  hotly. 

"I  really  ought  to  have  stayed  with  my  husband 
this  evening,"  murmured  Mrs.  Carpenter  bitterly, 
as  the  Misses  Rickland  entered  the  room,  all  pearl 
and  feathers  and  laciness,  with  the  prettiest  of  danc- 
ing slippers. 

"And  your  brother?"  asked  Winifred,  smiling, 
gazing  around  for  him  as  she  greeted  them. 

They  both  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Why — 
we  didn't  know  Spofford  was  asked,"  said  the  youngJ 
est  Miss  Rickland.  "He  didn't  say  anything  about 
it  when  we  told  him  we  were  coming." 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  125 

"He  accepted,"  said  Winifred,  flushing  again. 

"He  didn't  say  anything  about  it,"  corroborated 
the  other  sister.  "He  gets  so  many  invitations! 
We  think  he  went  over  to  the  college  entertainment 
at  the  Ridge  to-night,  though  we  didn't  ask  him." 

"Oh!"  said  Winifred,  feeling  that  she  could  stick 
a  dagger  into  Spofford  Rickland's  heart.  Never 
would  she  invite  him  again!  She  looked  wildly  at 
that  shimmering,  butterfly  row  of  women  expect- 
antly awaiting  partners  for  the  dance.  Wliy  weren't 
there  any  men?  Why  should  her  party  be  hoodooed 
in  this  way? 

Oh,  joy!  Rex  Courtney  was  in  the  door- way! 
There  was  a  chance  for  romance  yet,  anyway.  For 
one  instant,  as  his  dark  eyes  rested  on  the  glitter- 
ing phalanx  of  women,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  about 
to  turn  and  flee;  but  he  advanced  hastily  instead,  a 
mechanical  smile  curving  the  lips  under  the  brown 
moustache  as  Winifred  ran  toward  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  Please  don't  be 
scared  at  the  outlook." 

/'Not  I,"  said  Mr.  Courtney,  yet,  as  she  noticed, 
with  something  strangely  forced  in  his  manner.  _ 

"All  our  men  seem  to  have  been  killed  off!  It's 
really  absurd;  but  I'm  hoping  for  Leslie  soon.  I 
want  to  take  you  at  once  to  meet  Miss  Coates,  the 
lovely  girl  over  there  in  green;  I  think  you  know 
everybody  else.  Katharine,  this  is  Mr.  Courtney." 

It  was  almost  a  shock,  on  turning  away,  to  find 
Donald  Bannard  entering  with  his  wife.  His  tall 
and  lightsome  presence  seemed  something  to  cling  to. 


126         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

as  Winifred  moaned  out  her  troubles  to  them  both 
hastily.  "Everybody  in  the  place  will  be  making 
fun  of  this  to-morrow.  You'll  have  to  help  me  out, 
Donald." 

"Sure  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Bannard  manfully. 
"Dance  with  everybody  in  the  room.  Why  don't 
you  set  the  phonograph  going?  Take  off  some  of 
the  frost.  Hello,  here's  Mrs.  Silverton!  " 

A  slight  titter  went  around  as  it  was  seen  that  she 
also  was  alone.  "How  perfectly  dear  you  look!" 
she  announced  in  a  rich,  magnetic  voice,  holding  both 
of  Winifred's  hands;  "and  how  nice  just  to  have  a 
hen  party!  I've  been  hearing  about  it  upstairs. 
Arthur  had  a  'phone  from  Will  Laurence  before  I 
left  home,  saying  that  he  and  Mr.  Iverson  and  a  lot 
more  were  going  into  town  with  the  boys  after  the 
show,  and  have  a  supper  there  before  putting  them 
on  the  midnight  train.  There  are  about  thirty  of 
them.  What  good  times  men  do  have,  don't  they?" 

The  dagger  Winifred  had  wished  to  stick  into 
Spofford  Rickland's  heart  seemed  to  have  been  thrust 
through  her  own.  Her  last  hope  had  failed  her. 
"Where  is  Mr.  Silverton?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

Mrs.  Silverton  gave  way  to  a  low-pitched  laugh 
that  was  sweetly  contagious.  "We  had  the  most 
dreadful  quarrel  while  he  was  getting  dressed.  I'm  a 
feminist,  as  you  all  know,  and  I  said  that  if  there  was 
a  war  here  I  thought  I  ought  to  have  the  privilege 
of  fighting,  the  same  as  he;  and  he  said  the  idea  was 
monstrous;  and  I  said  that  I  would  look  awfully  nice 
in  a  man's  uniform,  and  he  declared  nobody  would 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  127 

have  any  respect  for  me  if  I  wore  one;  and  then — 
oh,  we  both  got  furious!  He  said  he  wouldn't  go 
out  with  any  woman  who  talked  such  fool  talk;  and 
I  said  then  he  could  stay  home — and  after  I'd  been 
so  lovely  to  him,  too,  getting  out  his  things  and  even 
running  his  bath  water  for  him !  I  hope  you're  glad 
to  have  me?" 

"Very,"  said  Winifred,  laughing. 

"And  I'm  going  to  live  up  to  my  principles,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Silverton,  "and  take  the  initiative — I  won't 
have  a  chance  with  all  these  lovely  girls  if  I  don't — 
and  ask  you,  Mr.  Bannard,  if  you  won't  please  be 
devoted  to  me  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  I'm  so 
lonely  without  Arthur.  Now  don't  turn  me  down!" 

"Indeed  I  will  not!"  said  Mr.  Bannard  with 
alacrity. 

Her  gayety  cast  a  fictitious  ripple  over  the  surface 
for  the  moment.  The  phonograph  started,  Donald 
leading  off  with  Mrs.  Silverton,  and  Rex  Courtney, 
with  a  strangely  funereal  expression,  following  with 
Katharine.  Several  women  essayed  to  dance  to- 
gether, but  nobody  seemed  to  be  able  to  "lead"  and 
after  a  short  time  the  effort  died  down.  Mrs.  Silver- 
ton  and  Donald  Bannard  disappeared  into  the  seclu- 
sion of  the  piazza,  and  Mr.  Courtney  subsided  into  a 
place  by  Nell  Crandall,  of  all  people,  when  there  were 
the  Rickland  girls  and  Katharine  sitting  out  while 
the  phonograph  played  on  unheeded.  The  women, 
in  a  satin-and-chiffon  row,  roving  eyed,  tried  to  talk 
interestedly,  with  lapses  in  between.  There  was  a 
general  effect  of  still  waiting  for  the  party  to  begin. 


128         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Winifred  wandered  desperately  out  into  the  hall 
and  in  again — in  the  interval  of  laboriously  talking 
— in  hope  each  time  that  the  situation  might  have 
changed  for  the  better;  she  felt  more  and  more  power- 
less to  "swing"  it  as  Leslie  would  have  done.  She 
caught  pitying  glances  bent  on  her;  she  knew  every 
one  was  secretly  talking  about  her  and  Leslie. 

"I'm  so  sorry  it's  turned  out  like  this  for  you, 
Katharine,"  she  whispered  miserably,  as  the  latter 
slipped  down  beside  her.  "What's  got  into  Rex 
Courtney  I  don't  know!" 

"The  poor  man  has  been  up  the  last  two  nights 
till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  said  Katharine 
compassionately.  "I  heard  him  telling  Mrs.  Crandall 
he  fell  asleep  on  the  train  coming  out  and  slept  'way 
on  to  Hightown;  and  he  missed  his  dinner  and  had 
just  time  to  catch  his  train  home  and  dress  and  come 
over  here;  and  he  strained  his  back  jumping  off  the 
car;  he  can  hardly  move.  But  you  needn't  be  sorry 
for  me,  my  dear."  Her  eyes  shone  meaningly. 

"  Katharine !  You're  not  still  thinking  of  that " 

"Yes.  I  can't  get  over  my  beautiful,  beautiful 
dream!  I  know  that  something  lovely  is  going  to 
happen." 

"Well,  you  are  a  dear,"  said  Winifred  blankly, 
with,  however,  the  reservation  that  Katharine  was 
a  little  mad. 

"Mr.  Bannard  is  still  on  the  piazza  with  Mrs. 
Silverton,"  suggested  Mrs.  Carpenter,  her  brown 
eyes  roving  longingly.  "Perhaps  he  doesn't  know 
how  to  get  away  from  her." 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  129 

Mrs.  Wilmer  shook  her  head.  "No  married  man 
stays  talking  to  a  woman  unless  he  wants  to,"  she 
asserted.  "As  long  as  they're  having  a  good  time 
they  might  as  well  keep  out  there.  Lucia's  glad  he's 
entertained;  he's  usually  so  restless." 

But  just  then  the  two  returned  to  the  fold.  There 
was  suddenly  that  dead  silence  in  the  room  which 
sometimes  obtains.  Winifred  looked  around  once 
more  with  a  sinking  heart.  Would  the  agony  never 
be  over?  It  was  still  nearly  an  hour  to  the  time  for 
which  supper  had  been  ordered.  Why  had  they 
bought  those  pates?  There  was  far  too  many! 
And  how  were  they  ever,  ever  going  to  hold  out  till 
then?  She  dashed  up  to  her  room  for  a  brief  moment, 
and  sobbed  foolishly.  She  felt,  somehow,  not  at  all 
married,  but  like  a  child,  alone. 

Hark!  As  she  came  downstairs  again — hark! 
What  was  that?  They  all  raised  their  heads  to  listen. 
Hark!  Nearer  it  came,  that  rollicking  volume  of 
sound  from  many  voices: 

Oh,  Amherst,  brave  Amherst, 
'Twas  a  name  known  to  fame  in  days  of  yore. 

May  it  ever  be  glorious 
Till  the  sun  shall  climb  the  heavens  no  more! 

The  last  words  came  in  deafening  chorus  amid  the 
whirr  of  stopping  motor  wheels.  There  was  a  flare 
of  lights,  and  the  next  instant  the  door  was  flung  open 
and  Leslie,  with  an  eager-eyed  crowd,  plunged  in. 

"Hello,  Win!"     His  face  was  radiant;  never  had 


130         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

he  looked  so  angelic  or  more  like  a  royal  prince. 
"I've  brought  a  small  section  of  the  gang  back  with 
me  for  a  good  dance.  Boys,  I  want  you  to  meet  my 
wife.  Mr.  Herring,  Mr.  Bowers,  Mr.  Platt,  Mr. 

Churchill,  Mr.  Conolly The  list  went  on  and 

on  as  a  dozen  fresh-  faced  youths  and  several  older 
men  stepped  up  to  shake  hands  with  her.  "Pass 
them  along,  Donald." 

"Oh,  Leslie,  I  thought  you  had  gone  into  town! 
I  thought— 

"Hush!  You  might  have  known  I  wouldn't. 
But  where's  Robinson  gone?" 

"Robinson?" 

He  nodded,  with  an  odd,  triumphant  twinkle  in 
his  eyes,  to  the  startled  question  in  hers  in  the  midst 
of  the  press  around  them.  "Yes,  'Lige'  Robinson. 
I  found  him  wandering  alone  in  the  hall  afterward, 
looking  for  Steele,  who  didn't  show  up.  He's  in- 
terested in  playgrounds,  so  I  got  him  to  come  back 
with  us.  I'm  some  little  wonder-worker,  I'd  have 
you  know.  Well,  will  you  look  at  that!" 

Over  in  the  far  doorway  with  Katharine — a  god- 
dess, indeed! — stood  a  slight  man  with  an  upward 
twist  to  one  eyebrow  and — 

"Why,  Leslie,  he's  lame!"  whispered  Winifred. 

His  eyes  met  hers  again  in  mute  yet  meaning  assent 
as  his  hand  pressed  her  shoulder.  "Yes,  that  was 

why,  you  see,  he  didn't But  she'll  make  it  all 

right  for  him  now.  He's  an  awfully  nice  chap,  Win. 
Somebody  turn  that  phonograph  loose." 

There  was  a  rush  on  to  the  floor  amid  a  wild  hilari- 


THE  WONDER-WORKER  131 

ousness  of  voices  and  laughter.  The  blonde  Miss 
Rickland  whirled  past. 

"But  won't  they  have  to  go  for  the  train  soon?" 
asked  Winifred  a  little  later. 

"Train  nothing!  They  can't  connect  from  here 
with  anything  in  town  now.  They'll  have  to  wait 
over  with  us  for  the  six-thirty  and  take  the  eight 
o'clock  from  the  Terminal." 

"But,  Leslie!  We  haven't  enough  beds;  we 
haven't— 

"Who  said  anything  about  beds?  We'll  just 
whoop  it  up  till  morning.  If  any  one  wants  to  go 
home,  he  can.  Come,  let's  have  a  turn." 

The  party  at  the  Iversons'  was  one  of  those  events, 
to  be  talked  of  long  afterward,  that  seems  to  make 
an  epoch  different  from  anything  before  or  since. 
Men  and  women  were  to  fraternize  years  hence  with 
the  delighted  words:  "Oh,  were  you  at  that  dance? 
Did  you  ever  have  such  a  funny  time  hi  your  life? 
Do  you  remember — 

There  was  that  revelation  to  the  staid  householder 
that  it  is  actually  possible  to  be  festively  out  of  bed 
during  those  hours  when  you  are  supposed  to  be 
sound  asleep  in  one,  only  Mrs.  Paxton  and  Mr. 
Courtney  leaving  early.  It  was  not  only  that  they 
danced  and  danced  and  danced  yet  more  hilariously 
after  a  supper  interspersed  with  rousing  choruses  and 
reckless  answers  to  telephone  calls  from  stupefied 
husbands  at  home;  it  was  not  only  the  magic  circle 
formed  later,  with  wild  applause  at  the  performances 


132         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

of  "stunts"  within  it — there  was  also  that  absurd 
and  stealthy  sallying  forth  in  groups  before  the  gray 
dawn,  cloaked  and  hooded  women  escorted,  with  sup- 
pressed and  immoderate  laughter,  to  their  own  near- 
by households,  to  forage  for  more  bread  and  eggs 
and  bacon  and  orange  marmalade  for  the  breakfast 
at  the  Iversons',  to  be  cooked  and  eaten  there  by  the 
whole  party,  and  the  triumphant  march  of  the  men 
to  the  train  afterward,  with  the  women  waving  in 
massed  farewell  and  just  about  ready  to  drop. 

Katharine  and  her  lover  alone  had  sat  all  the  time 
together,  radiantly  oblivious.  Leslie  had  done  the 
trick  after  all! 


BOGGYBRAE 

C3LIE,  there's  something  I  forgot  to  ask  you  last 
night.'; 

Winifred  Iverson,  in  a  crisp,  rose-striped 
morning  frock  that  set  off  her  pretty  dark  hair  and 
eyes,  leaned  earnestly  over  the  Japanese  breakfast 
tray  toward  her  husband.  He  was  a  tall,  fair, 
pleasant-faced  young  man,  who,  after  the  traditional 
habit  of  the  commuter,  was  eating  his  bacon  and 
eggs  with  one  eye  roving  competently  sideways  over 
the  newspaper  on  the  table  near  him.  Between 
bites  he  made  absent-minded  replies  to  the  little 
flaxen-curled  Matilda,  sitting  beside  him  in  her  high 
chair,  well  bibbed  against  the  overflowing  of  her  tip- 
ping spoon,  held  tight  in  her  small  fist. 

"Keep  still  for  a  moment,  Matilda.  Leslie,  isn't 
it  'most  time  for  a  directors'  meeting?" 

"Yes,  there's  one  to-morrow — Wednesday." 

"  Oh,  I'm  50  glad !    You're  going  to  it,  aren't  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Mrs.  Iverson  gave  a  sigh  of  relief;  her  knitted 
brow  smoothed.  For  attending  the  meetings  of  the 
board  a  ten-dollar  gold-piece  was  the  perquisite  of 
each  member;  Leslie  always  gave  his  coin  to  her. 

"  That  just  helps  me  out.  I  want  to  buy  the  new 
rug  this  week  without  fail;  this  old  one  is  so  dreadful  I 

133 


134         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

can't  ask  another  soul  into  the  house  until  I  do.  I've 
been  saving  up  my  Christmas  and  birthday  money 
for  nearly  a  year,  and  if  I  don't  get  the  rug  now  the 
money  will  just  melt,  hi  these  hard  times.  Mother 
and  I  saw  the  kind  I  want  yesterday — awfully  good 
value,  but  I  just  needed  ten  dollars  more.  She  wanted 
to  give  it  to  me,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her,  with  all  she's 
done  already." 

"That  was  right." 

Mr.  Iverson  rose;  kissed  his  wife  and  child;  swooped 
for  overcoat,  hat,  and  newspaper;  made  for  the  door, 
and  then  turned  back  with  his  usual  sunny  expres- 
sion, to  say:  "I'll  be  home  a  little  late  for  dinner. 
Your  father  has  asked  me  up  to  the  links  with  him 
this  afternoon;  there's  nothing  doing  at  the  office, 
so  I  might  as  well  get  off "  and  was  gone. 

His  wife  sat  looking  after  him  with  a  slight  knitting 
of  the  brow.  When  a  man  played  golf  it  seemed  to 
take  an  unholy  grip  on  him;  it  literally  took  prece- 
dence of  everything  else.  If  Leslie  could  get  off 
early,  there  were  ever  so  many  odd  jobs  to  be  done 
in  the  house;  there  was  no  sense  in  hiring  a  man  at 
so  much  an  hour  when  one  was  trying  to  keep  down 
expenses.  She  couldn't  realize  that  to  do  little  odd 
jobs  at  the  present  moment  irritated  him  inexpres- 
sibly— in  some  foolish  way  it  irritated  him  that  he  did 
have  this  expensive  time  to  waste  on  them;  there 
was  nothing  to  sugar  the  thought,  as  there  was  in  the 
joys  of  golf. 

Her  own  father,  kind  Mr.  Brentwood,  abetted 
Leslie  in  the  latter,  saying  that  he  needed  both  the 


BOGGYBRAE  135 

exercise  and  the  diversion  in  this  crucial  period  of 
affairs;  perhaps  he  was  right — Leslie  had  looked 
unusually  anxious  lately,  in  contrast  to  his  habitual 
sunniness.  But  women  did  things  very  differently. 
She  herself  had  been  conscientiously  economical 
on  a  reduced  allowance  during  this  war  strain  which 
had  so  greatly  affected  the  trade  of  the  Electrographic 
Company.  She  had  at  times  a  feeling  that  she  could 
have  run  her  husband's  business  better  than  he  did; 
he  would  keep  that  expensive  secretary,  when  she 
had  told  him  a  dozen  times  that  he  could  get  a  woman 
to  fill  the  place  for  half  the  price;  it  seemed  odd,  too, 
that  he  should  take  afternoons  off  for  pleasure  when 
business  was  slack. 

Winifred  hustled  around  putting  things  to  rights; 
this  was  her  busy  morning — there  was  a  meeting 
at  Mrs.  Bannard's  at  ten  o'clock  to  sew  for  the  Red 
Cross;  but  her  mother  had  promised  to  do  the  mar- 
keting for  her  In  view  of  the  uncertain  times,  the 
High  Cost  of  Living  was  being  enthusiastically 
grappled  with;  the  era  of  telephoning  for  supplies 
had  come  to  an  end, — in  theory  at  least — the  nicest 
people  coming  in  their  motors  or  on  foot  with  baskets 
or  string  bags,  and  filling  them  at  the  newly  estab- 
lished market,  where  those  nice  farmers  were  so 
pleased  to  sell  to  you.  The  Price  of  Food  had  be- 
come a  Cult,  to  be  discussed  on  all  occasions. 

Even  the  liUle  Matilda  had  a  market-basket 
about  the  size  of  a  peanut,  with  which  she  trotted 
along  by  the  side  of  her  proud  grandmother,  when 
the  latter  stopped  for  her,  as  to-day.  Mrs.  Brent- 


136         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

wood  was  fresh-coloured,  with  slightly  gray  hair,  and 
an  expression  of  calm  that  contrasted  with  the  anxious 
tenseness  of  the  daughter. 

"I  see  that  your  screen  doors  are  not  off  yet, 
Winifred,"  she  remarked. 

"No,  I've  been  waiting  for  Leslie  to  take  them 
down;  of  course  the  season  has  been  late.  I  thought 
he'd  do  it  to-day,  but  he  won't  be  home  in  time;  he's 
going  with  Father  to  play  golf.  He  does  caddie  for 
himself  now,  but  still " 

"Oh,"  said  the  mother  understandingly,  "it's  such 
beautiful  weather!"  She  hesitated  a  moment: 
"How  about  the  rug?  I  want  to  say  again 

"No,  you  won't,"  interrupted  the  daughter,  smil- 
ing, with  her  arms  around  the  other.  "I'm  to  have 
the  ten-dollar  gold  piece  when  Leslie  goes  to  his  di- 
rectors' meeting  to-morrow.  I'll  have  the  rug  this 
week,  so  it's  all  right." 

"All  yight,"  echoed  the  little  Matilda,  as,  her  tiny 
hand  burrowing  into  the  fond  grandmother's,  the 
two  went  off;  the  child  in  her  white  woolly  coat  and 
resetted  cap  looking  like  a  little  white  rabbit  skip- 
ping along. 

At  the  very  moment  of  her  confident  assertion, 
Winifred  had  had  that  strange,  psychic  double-feeling 
that  comes  to  us  at  times,  apparently  without  reason, 
that  what  she  said  was  not  true.  Perhaps  gold  pieces 
would  no  longer  be  given  to  members  of  the  board; 

perhaps  there  would  be  no  meeting;  perhaps She 

seemed  to  be  full  of  uncomfortable  sensations. 

Everything  was  in  full  progress  when  Winifred 


BOGGYBRAE  137 

reached  the  Bannards',  with  a  great  tearing  off  of 
muslin  and  cutting  out  with  large  shears,  and  the  soft 
whirr  of  sewing  machines,  and  the  busy  click  of 
knitting  needles.  Each  woman  had  a  deep,  unspoken 
sentiment  for  the  sick  or  wounded  that  she  would 
never  see;  but  after  the  usual  horrified  remarks  on 
the  latest  news  of  the  war,  and  recitals  from  the 
letters  of  soldiers  abroad,  matters  nearer  home  were 
taken  up. 

Pretty,  gentle  Mrs.  Chandor  announced  the  fact 
that  she  had  bought  eight  large  tomatoes  for  five  cents 
apiece  in  the  market  that  very  morning;  while  Mrs. 
Rickland,  a  much  older  woman,  confessed  that  she 
hadn't  been  there  yet;  her  girls  had  been  out  to  a 
dance  until  two  o'clock  the  night  before,  and  she 
had  sat  up  for  them. 

"Well,  at  our  house  Brunhilda  and  Ermentrude 
each  have  a  latch-key,"  said  Mrs.  Fremer,  an- 
other matron,  of  an  imposing  Roman  presence, 
"their  work  often  keeps  them  in  town  so  late;  but 
I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind  to  let  Tucker  have 
one,  though  his  father  thinks  I  ought  to;  with  boys 
it's  so  different — you  never  can  tell  what  they  may 
do.  I  feel  now  that  I  know  Tucker's  every  thought." 

There  was  a  moment's  delicate  silence,  which 
seemed  to  cover  some  dissent  from  this  last  state- 
ment among  the  listeners. 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  elegant  Mrs.  Roberts,  her 
marble-like  dark  eyes  roving  finely  around  the  group. 
*'A  woman's  influence  is  so  much!" 

"Well,  I've  never  found  her  influence  amount  to 


138         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

such  a  great  deal,"  returned  the  charming  Mrs. 
Silverton;  her  blue  eyes  gleamed  under  their  long 
lashes.  "Here  I've  been  for  five  years  trying  to 
teach  my  husband  not  to  throw  his  wet  towels 
in  a  wad  on  the  bathroom  floor,  and  he  still  does 
it." 

"I  think  men  stay  just  about  the  same,  no  matter 
what  you  do,"  said  Nell  Crandall  comfortably. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  Mrs.  Fremer  shook  her  head. 
"It  is  easy  to  pass  over  these  things  lightly;  but  when 
you  see  men  deteriorating  because  of  the  lack  of  the 
higher  feminine  ideal,  and  because  women  shirk  their 
duty,  it  is  a  very  serious  matter  indeed.  Everything 
depends  upon  the  wife  and  mother!  There  was  Mrs. 
Laurence,  over  at  the  Ridge — she  isn't  here  to-day, 
is  she?  She  told  me  herself  that  her  husband  wasn't 
going  to  vote  at  the  last  local  election  because  he 
wasn't  interested  in  it,  and  she  said  to  him:  'Will,  I 
haven't  the  ballot  yet,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  but  you 
have,  and  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  not  to 
use  it!'  So  he  voted,  though  he  said  it  didn't  make 
any  difference,  for  the  other  side  got  in  as  usual.  But 
it's  the  principle  that  counts." 

Mrs.  Roberts  nodded  solemnly.  "You  can't  get 
away  from  it — the  responsibility.  Of  course  it  puts 
more  on  the  woman  all  the  time,  but  we're  used  to 
that!  Now  there  is  Clementine  Wilmer — she  isn't 
here,  is  she? — the  way  her  husband  neglects  his  busi- 
ness for  golf  is  simply  dreadful.  He  goes  past  every 
single  afternoon  with  his  clubs.  I  think  she  is  very 
wrong  to  allow  it.  The  home  depends  on  the  woman* 


BOGGYBRAE  139 

and  the  nation  depends  on  the  home — you  can't  get 
away  from  that.  I  think  myself  that  only  unmar- 
ried men  should  play  golf." 

"My  husband  doesn't  like  me  to  stay  in  the  house 
all  the  time;  he  likes  me  to  have  something  interest- 
ing to  tell  him  at  dinner,"  said  the  swan-necked  Mrs. 
Carpenter  seriously. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Winifred,  who  had  been 
listening  deeply  to  the  conversation.  She  turned 
now  to  Mrs.  Fremer,  who  was  gathering  up  her  work 
as  she  rose  to  go.  "  I  saw  Brunhilda  as  I  came  along, 
Mrs.  Fremer;  how  pretty  she  looks!  I  suppose  you 
like  Mr.  Phillips  very  much." 

"Well,  I've  only  met  him  once — Brunhilda  didn't 
care  to  bring  him  out  to  the  house  until  after  they 
were  engaged,"  said  the  mother.  "She  said  he 
would  see  enough  of  the  family  afterward.  I  said 
at  once:  'Brunhilda,  I  can  trust  to  your  intuitions; 
if  he  suits  you,  that  is  enough  for  me.'  Of  course 
she  had  only  known  him  a  short  time;  still ' 

"Oh,  goodness,  I've  begun  to  think  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  whether  you  know  them  two 
days  or  two  years,"  said  Mrs.  Silverton,  her  eyes 
sparkling.  "You  never  find  out  a  man's  character 
until  you're  married  to  him,  and  then  you  don't! 
They  keep  doing  the  most  unexpected  things! — Has 
Mrs.  Fremer  gone?  I  wouldn't  trust  to  a  girl's 
intuition  too  much  myself.  What  is  it,  Winifred?" 

"Only  that  I  expect  the  meeting  next  Friday  to 
be  at  my  house,"  said  Winifred  loudly,  with  the 
satisfied  thought  that  the  new  rug  would  be  there 


140         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

several  days  before  that.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  clinch  the  possession  of  it  and  stop  this  feeling 
of  uncertainty. 

The  mark  of  care,  as  Winifred  noticed  quickly, 
was  still  on  Leslie's  face  when  he  came  home,  hi 
spite  of  the  afternoon's  golf.  But  he  smiled  with  a 
swiftly  approving  glance  as  he  met  her  dark  eyes — 
Winifred  had  very  clear  eyes;  a  sweet  nobleness  of 
purpose,  earnestly  desirous  of  all  the  best  things, 
shone  at  times  unconsciously  in  them.  He  touched 
her  cheek  with  a  little  affectionate  gesture. 

"Well,  how  have  things  gone  to-day?"  he  asked 
as  they  were  seated  at  the  dinner  table. 

"Oh,  pretty  well."  She  heroically  forbore  to 
mention  that  the  screen  doors  were  still  up.  "I'm 
sorry  I  had  to  put  Matilda  to  bed  before  you  came. 
You  seem  tired;  didn't  you  have  a  good  game?" 

"Oh,  yes;  good  enough.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  cut 
out  golf  after  this,  though;  it's  getting  late.  We 
had  to  let  a  lot  more  men  go  to-day  from  the  shop;  it's 
pretty  hard.  Oh,  the  business  will  come  out  all  right, 
but  it's  slow  work;  it  gets  me  some  days." 

"Are  you  still  keeping  that  secretary?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  that's  fair  to  the  others, 
Leslie,  when  you  can  hire  a  stenographer  for  half 
the  price." 

He  curbed  a  movement  of  impatience.  "You 
don't  understand — I've  told  you  before  that  he's  a 
protege  of  Nichols — it's  business  to  keep  him." 

"Well,  it  doesn't  seem  fair  to  me." 


BOGGYBRAE  141 

*  s. 

"All  right;  suppose  we  call  it  even!  There's  the 
telephone." 

He  had  leaped  to  his  feet  at  the  sound,  and  was 
trying  to  answer  it  the  next  moment.  "It  seems 
to  be  long-distance — Hello!  hello!  Who  did  you 
say?  Oh,  Mr.  Dorimon!  No,  not  so  busy  as  we 
might  be.  Well,  I've  about  given  it  up  for  this  sea- 
son, but — Why,  that's  awfully  kind  of  you,  Mr. 
Dorimon!  Sure  I  will;  nicest  thing  I've  heard  in 
a  coon's  age.  Yes,  indeed,  I'll  be  there  on  time. 
Well,  thank  you  ever  so  much.  Good-bye!" 

"What  is  it?"  his  wife  asked  with  eager  interest 
as  he  dropped  down  in  his  chair  with  face  alight. 

"Well,  isn't  that  fine  of  the  old  chap?  Wilmer's 
been  trying  to  get  me  in  touch  with  him.  Mr. 
Dorimon's  invited  me  out  to  Boggybrae,  with  Wil- 
mer.  I've  always  wanted  to  try  that  course,  but 
it's  so  far  out  I've  never  had  the  chance.  He  says 
he'll  take  me  up  in  the  machine." 

"I  thought  you  just  said  you'd  given  up  golf  for 
this  season." 

"Well,  Winifred!  I  didn't  mean  I'd  give  up  an 
invitation  like  that,  did  I?  Use  sense." 

"When  is  it  to  be?" 

"To-morrow  afternoon." 

Winifred  stared.  "Why,  that's  the  afternoon  of 
the  directors'  meeting.  You  can't  go,  Leslie." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like  that  inter- 
fere." 

"Leslie!  'A  little  thing  like  that' — when  I  want 
that  ten  dollars  so  much!" 


142         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

< 

"That's  so!"  He  looked  at  her  with  almost 
comical  ruefulness.  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
that?  You  see,  except  for  the  money,  there  isn't  the 
slightest  use  in  my  going  to  that  meeting,  dear."  He 
softened  his  rising  voice  to  gentleness.  "Nichols 
controls  the  board;  he  knows  the  whole  business;  we 
do  just  as  he  says,  and  there'll  be  a  quorum  without 
me,  anyway.  If  I  could  only  give  you  that  ten 
dollars  out  of  hand " 

"You  know  I  wouldn't  take  it." 

"Why  do  you  have  to  get  the  rug  just  now,  any- 
way?" 

"  Why  do  I  have  to  get  it?  Because  this  is  so  worn 
and  ragged  that  it's  perfectly  disgusting.  I  can't 
have  a  soul  come  to  the  house  while  it's  down;  I 
have  to  put  a  chair  over  there  to  cover  the  hole.  I 
only  asked  the  Red  Cross  to  meet  here  on  Friday 

because  I  felt  so  sure  of  having  it,  and  now Oh, 

Leslie,  if  you  knew  how  I  hated  to  hear  you  talk 
that  way !  It  makes  me  feel  that  I  haven't  done  my 
duty  at  all.  It  isn't  only  the  money — it's  the  point 
of  view.  I  do  think  that  when  a  man  accepts  re- 
sponsibilities he  ought  to  live  up  to  them;  it  just  un- 
dermines his  whole  character  if  he  doesn't!  You 
say  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  go  to  such  an  impor- 
tant thing  as  a  directors'  meeting.  Well,  there 
ought  to  be  a  need,  there  ought 

"Oh,  well —  '  He  looked  at  her  absently,  as  if 
he  were  pondering,  but  still  absurdly  crestfallen. 
"Don't  say  any  more;  I'll  go,  of  course.  I  wouldn't 
make  you  pay  up  for  it." 


BOGGYBRAE  143 

"But,  Leslie,  that  isn't  the  way  to  think  of  it!" 
Womanlike,  however,  having  gained  her  point,  she 
began  to  yearn  futilely  over  him.  "You  couldn't 
do  both,  I  suppose?" 

"I  should  say  not.     The  meeting  is  at  three." 

"I  wish  you  could  play  your  old  golf!  Leslie,  it 
really  makes  me  miserable  to  have  you  give  it  up, 
but  you  know  yourself  it's  your  duty  to  go  to  the 
meeting.  And  if  I  don't  get  that  rug  now — though 
that  isn't  the  point — 

"All  right,  all  right;  the  subject  is  closed,"  said 
Leslie,  in  that  tone  of  his  that  did  close  the  subject. 
"I'll  call  up  Mr.  Dorimon  now  and  tell  him  I  can't 
come." 

"What  did  he  say?"  she  couldn't  help  asking  as 
Leslie  came  back  from  the  'phone. 

"I  couldn't  get  him;  he's  gone  out  for  the  evening. 
I'll  call  him  up  from  town  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing," he  answered  shortly,  burying  himself  gloomily 
afterward  in  a  book  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

But  later  that  quality  of  real  kindness  and  sweet- 
ness in  him,  which  scrupulously  considered  her  rights 
and  her  happiness,  asserted  itself;  in  closing  up  the 
house  for  the  night  he  moved  the  chair,  as  if  by  ac- 
cident, that  covered  the  big  hole  in  the  shabby  rug, 
and  said,  as  he  kicked  it  carelessly  with  his  foot: 

"Well,  the  little  girl  is  going  to  have  her  new  rug 
this  week,  anyway." 

"Yes,"  returned  Winifred,  with  an  unexpected 
recurrence  of  that  odd  sensation  that  she  was  saying 
what  was  not  true. 


144         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

II 

THE  next  day  was  the  most  beautiful  softly  golden 
one  of  a  softly  golden  autumn;  just  the  day  for  golf. 
Winifred  couldn't  help  hoping  that  it  might  rain  by 
afternoon  so  that  Leslie  wouldn't  have  had  to  give 
up  so  much  after  all.  But  she  couldn't  keep  from 
saying  to  him  that  morning  as  he  went  out  through 
the  screen  door:  "You  won't  forget  to  call  up  Mr. 
Dorimon?"  and  he  answered,  "No;  I  won't  forget, 
Winifred." 

The  day  seemed  rather  a  long  one  to  her.  Mrs. 
Roberts,  over  the  telephone,  embedded  in  a  lava-flow 
of  elegant  language  the  thrilling  fact  that  green 
peppers  could  actually  be  bought  two  for  six  cents — 
cheaper  even  than  in  the  market ! — at  a  mysteriously 
distant  spot  where  an  Italian  family  sold  vegetables 
in  the  home.  The  fact  somehow  didn't  appeal  ap- 
petizingly.  Mrs.  Wilmer  called  up  to  say  that 
she  and  her  husband  were  going  away  on  the  morrow 
for  a  few  days,  and  how  pleased  Jack  had  been  that 
i  Leslie  had  the  invitation  to  Boggybrae.  She  had  to 
leave  the  'phone  suddenly,  and  Winifred  couldn't 
explain. 

And  as  the  swing  of  life  went,  Mrs.  Chandor  called 
up  to  impart,  in  an  awed  voice,  the  word  just  re- 
ceived that  the  fair-haired  young  Englishman  who 
was  in  her  husband's  office  before  the  war  had  been 
killed  in  action.  Winifred  hadn't  known  him,  but 
somehow  the  news  seemed  to  set  one  almost  in  the 
dread  current  of  battle:  with  the  pity  for  those  who 


BOGGYBRAE  145 

were  bereaved,  it  made  you  feel  as  if  you  ought  to 
love  those  near  you  more  than  ever.  She  almost 
wished  she  had  let  Leslie  go  to  his  golf,  if  it  were  not 
for  the  more  serious  issue  involved. 

Just  after  luncheon,  however,  little  Brunhilda 
Fremer,  red-cheeked  and  glowing,  ran  in  on  her  way 
home  from  the  tram  for  a  book,  and  incidentally 
to  show  her  engagement  ring,  a  large  diamond  sunk 
in  a  platinum  band  instead  of  the  traditional  gold; 
the  metal  might  be  an  innovation  to  Winifred's  senti- 
ment, but  the  look  in  Brunhilda's  brown  eyes  as  she 
regarded  it  held  all  the  tradition  of  the  engaged. 

"I  think  it's  awfully  good,"  she  asserted  raptly. 

"Was  it  Mr.  Phillips's  choice?" 

"He  hasn't  seen  it  yet,"  said  the  bride-elect,  still 
engrossed  by  the  view  of  her  uplifted  hand. 

"Not  seen  it  yet!" 

Brunhilda  laughed.  "  That's  exactly  the  way  Aunt 
Julia  spoke;  she's  so  romantic!  No,  I  didn't  want 
him  along;  he  is  so  inartistic.  Three  of  the  girls  from 
the  Art  School  went  with  me  to  choose  it — all  he 
wanted  was  for  me  to  be  suited — and  we  had  the 
loveliest  time!  I  telephoned  him  after  I'd  picked 
it  out.  Really,  you  know  I  didn't  approve  of  spend- 
ing so  much  money  on  an  engagement  ring.  I  could 
have  had  all  the  newest  plumbing  put  in  the  studio 
for  half  the  price,  and  Mother  thought  I  was  very 
foolish  not  to;  but  Kelvey  preferred  the  ring." 

"Well,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Winifred  frankly. 

"  I  insisted  on  his  bringing  up  his  law  books  to  the 
studio  and  teaching  me  in  the  evenings,"  continued 


146         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Brunhilda.  "Mother  thinks  it  is  so  necessary  for  a 
woman  to  help  her  husband  in  his  work;  he  needs  her 
intuition,  of  course,  but  he  needs  her  knowledge,  too." 

"I  should  think  it  would  be  almost  too  much  for 
you,  studying  law  after  working  as  hard  as  you  do 
all  day  at  your  decorating." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that.  Of  course  we  haven't 
done  much  reading  yet.  I  say  to  him  every  night, 
'Kelvey,  we  really  must  get  down  to  work!'  but  there 
have  been  so  many  things  to  talk  about — the  furnish- 
ings and  all  that,  and  lately  " — a  sudden  vivid  blush 
overspread  Brunhilda's  small  round  face — "Kelvey 
is  so  foolish  sometimes,"  she  murmured. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Winifred  warmly,  yet  with 
a  feeling  that  in  spite  of  the  girl's  theories  her  Kelvey 
seemed  to  be  getting  his  own  way  most  of  the  time. 

"  But  I  must  go.  I  hope  I'm  not  keeping  you  from 
Mr.  Iverson, "  said  Brunhilda,  jumping  up. 

"Why,  Leslie  isn't  home  at  this  time  of  day." 

"Oh!  I  thought  I  saw  him  on  the  train  I  came 
out  in,"  said  Brunhilda,  staring. 

"You  couldn't  have!  He  has  an  engagement  in 
town  at  three  this  afternoon." 

"I  must  have  been  mistaken  then;  still — Good- 
bye!" She  seemed  suddenly  to  melt  warmly  into 
Winifred's  embrace,  velvet  coat,  feathered  hat,  and 
all,  with  something  indescribably  whole-hearted  and 
confiding  in  the  action.  Winifred  didn't  wonder  at 
Kelvey  Phillips's  disinclination  for  spending  all  his 
evenings  in  the  study  of  law. 

But  why  had  Brunhilda  imagined  that  she  saw 


BOGGYBRAE  147 

Leslie?  If  he  had  broken  his  word  and  gone  to  play 
golf  he  would  have  ridden  from  town  in  Mr.  Dori- 
mon's  motor;  reason  it  out  any  way  you  would,  he 
couldn't  have  been  where  Brunhilda  thought  she  saw 
him.  Once  she  had  herself  come  face  to  face  hi  town 
with  the  husband  of  an  acquaintance  after  having  just 
been  told  that  he  had  gone  to  another  city — it  had 
given  her  a  queer  sensation  that  she  had  never  for- 
gotten. Did  men  do  such  things — things  they  didn't 
tell  their  wives? 

Leslie  was  unusually  late  for  dinner;  she  had  al- 
most given  him  up,  when  he  came  in  vigorously, 
tall  and  fair-haired;  his  sunny  presence  seemed  to  fill 
the  little  house. 

He  kissed  his  wife  with  unusual  tenderness,  smiling 
down  into  the  dark  eyes  raised  with  unconscious 
questioning  to  his,  and  afterward  put  his  hand  in  one 
pocket  and  then  in  the  other,  pretending  exaggerated 
surprise  and  drawing  it  out  empty. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  lost  it!  Too  bad — you'll  have 
to  go  without  that  rug  after  all.  Steady  now- 
steady Ah,  here's  the  precious  ten-dollar  gold 

piece." 

Winifred  pounced  on  it,  laughing. 

"You  do  behave  like  such  a  goose,  Leslie.  But 
I'm  very  glad  to  have  it;  I  kept  fancying  that  some- 
thing would  interfere."  She  held  him  off  suddenly 
at  arm's  length,  voicing  a  half -suspicion :  "You 
didn't  take  it  from  the  reserve  fund?"  The  small 
reserve  fund  in  the  bank  was  sacred,  to  be  taken  only 
in  emergency  with  consent  of  both. 


148         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

The  corners  of  his  mouth  set  in  a  straight  line. 
"No,  ma'am,  I  did  not.  Isn't  this  money  good 
enough  for  you?" 

"Leslie,  don't,  dear;  I  only  thought  the  meeting 
might  have  been  postponed." 

"Well,  it  wasn't." 

His  sunniness  shone  forth  again,  yet  with  a  certain 
anxious  earnestness  below  it.  "Now  be  sure  and 
get  that  rug  to-morrow;  that's  all  I  ask.  If  you  don't 
I'll  borrow  the  money  from  you." 

"Oh,  I'll  get  it,"  said  Winifred  gaily. 

Yet,  after  all,  she  didn't  go  into  town  on  the  mor- 
row; little  Matilda  had  a  slight  cold.  Something 
each  day  seemed  to  prevent.  That  special  tender- 
ness which  she  had  noted  on  Leslie's  part  still  con- 
tinued: he  brought  her  a  bunch  of  carnations  the 
next  night,  which,  though  somewhat  wilted — having 
been  bought  "off  a  boy'5  in  the  street — were  still 
floral  tokens  of  affection;  he  took  off  the  screen 
doors  without  being  reminded  again;  he  spent  all 
one  evening  putting  washers  on  the  leaking  faucets; 
and  he  agreed,  with  only  faint  demur,  to  take  that 
unholy  walk  to  the  Fremers'  on  the  farthest  borders 
of  the  town,  in  acceptance  of  the  invitation  to  "meet" 
Brunhilda's  young  man. 

Leslie's  behaviour,  indeed,  was  such  as  to  have 
made  a  wife  with  more  experience  ponder  somewhat 
on  its  cause.  But  he  also  asked  every  day  with  un- 
usual interest  when  the  Wilmers  would  be  back, 
and  if  she  had  bought  the  rug;  wanting  persistently 
to  know  why  she  hadn't,  and  urging  her  to  action. 


BOGGYBRAE  149 

After  the  fashion  of  womankind,  Winifred,  who, 
while  waiting  for  the  price  of  the  rug,  felt  that  she 
could  barely  eat  or  sleep  until  it  was  on  the  floor, 
couldn't  seem  to  find  exactly  the  right  time  now  to  go 
into  town.  She  calmly  let  the  Red  Cross  Society  meet 
at  her  house  and  work  with  their  feet  on  the  old  rug, 
ragged  as  it  was;  she  felt  so  differently  about  it  when 
everyone  knew  she  was  expecting  to  buy  a  better  one. 

"I  really  am  going  in  for  it  to-morrow,"  she  said 
that  evening  in  answer  to  her  husband's  reiterated 
question,  before  starting  out  for  the  Fremers'. 

"Yes,  I  would  if  I  were  you;  if  you  wait  too  long 
I  may  pitch  this  out,"  he  warned  her.  "Here's  an 
extra  dollar  for  you — you  may  need  a  little  more 
leeway  in  carfare  or  lunch,  or  something." 

"How  is  business  now?"  she  hazarded.  That 
line  in  his  forehead  had  smoothed  out  somewhat. 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "It  seems  to  be 
a  little  better — Heaven  knows  it  needed  to  be! 
We've  had  a  big  order  lately."  He  stopped  short. 
"The  Wilmers  won't  be  at  the  Fremers',  you  say?' 

"They  don't  get  back  until  to-morrow." 

"Well,  you  get  that  rug.  Perhaps  we'd  better 
take  a  cab  after  all  over  to  the  Fremers';  it's  a  pretty 
long  distance  for  you — I  tell  you  we  feel  it  now 
Father's  away  with  the  car." 

"No,  we'll  walk,"  said  Winifred  stoutly. 

Ill 

EVERYONE  was  already  at  the  Fremers'  when  they 
arrived;  people  standing  in  small  groups  and  talking 


150         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

perfunctorily.  The  house  had  a  distinctly  depress- 
ing effect  on  "company,"  Brunhilda  and  Ermentrude 
having  decorated  it  in  accordance  with  the  newest 
ideas.  The  drawing  rooms — hung  in  gray  and  black 
with  immense  bronze  lamps  that  sent  out  about  a 
needleful  of  light,  and  a  few  gleaming  legs  of  chairs 
and  tables  showing  in  the  distance — gave  an  impres- 
sion of  bareness,  as  of  not  yet  being  ready  for  oc- 
cupancy. 

It  was  reported,  by  those  who  had  slept  there  over- 
night in  the  winter-time,  that  there  were  never  enough 
covers.  The  fact  seemed  somehow  indicative. 

There  was  an  exception,  however,  in  "Grandma's" 
room,  to  which  certain  favoured  guests  were  con- 
ducted on  arrival;  a  cheerful,  brilliantly  lighted  spot 
of  warm  red  curtains,  and  sagging,  cushioned  rockers, 
and  piles  of  old  magazines,  and  flowered  work  bags, 
and  crocheted  shawls  with  lavender  borders.  Wrap- 
ped in  one  of  the  latter  in  the  midst  of  these  evidences 
of  living,  Grandma  held  court,  apologizing  scrupu- 
lously for  not  rising  on  account  of  her  foot. 

"I  am  always  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  said 
to  Winifred,  who  stood  before  her,  radiant  in  a  pretty 
white  evening  gown,  "and  your  husband,  too." 
She  lowered  her  voice  to  a  mysterious  whisper: 
"What  do  you  think  of  my  granddaughter's  young 
man?" 

"We've  not  met  him  yet,"  said  Winifred. 

"Oh!  Bend  lower,  my  dear.  She  thinks  she's 
going  to  twist  him  around  her  little  finger,  but  I  could 
tell  her  *  thing  worth  two  of  that.  He's  a  rascal 


BOGGYBRAE  151 

like  your  husband  here — he's  a  rascal!  He'll  get  his 
own  way  every  time  if  he  wants  to.  Ah,  I  know 
you ! ' '  She  shook  her  finger  delightedly,  at  Leslie. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Whiting,  you  know  you  love  me," 
said  Leslie  laughingly,  making  way  for  the  next 
batch  of  visitors. 

"  Let's  go  home  now,  Win,"  he  murmured,  suddenly 
balking  at  the  door. 

"No,  we  can't  go  yet,"  she  murmured  back,  as 
they  descended  into  the  aesthetic  gloom  of  the  state 
caverns,  in  which  the  little  Brunhilda  was  now  cir- 
cling around  like  a  small  red  robin,  though  she  wore 
a  silver  fillet  on  her  dark  hair,  and  a  classic  yellow 
robe  that  showed  not  only  her  lovely  bare  white 
neck  and  arms,  but  also  her  lovely  sandaled  little 
bare  white  feet. 

Leslie  and  Winifred  halted  by  a  group  of  friends: 
the  Chandors  and  Bannards  and  Silvertons;  the 
purple-velveted  Mrs.  Roberts,  who  was  always 
afraid  of  losing  some  pearl  of  converse,  eagerly 
detaching  herself  from  uninteresting  strangers  to 
join  the  others,  as  Brunhilda  came  across  the  room 
to  them  with  her  young  man  following  a  half  step 
behind,  and  her  head  leaning  back  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  spoke  to  him.  There  was,  however,  nothing 
of  the  laggard  in  his  mien  or  expression,  which 
seemed  to  show  an  amused  aloofness  from  his  sur- 
roundings, though  his  smiling  eyes,  bent  on  the  up- 
turned ones  of  Brunhilda,  were  full  of  a  gleaming, 
guarded  tenderness  of  ardour  that  capably  bided 
its  time. 


152         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Winifred,  turning  to  see  how  Leslie  was  regarding 
them,  gazed  at  him  in  wonderment.  He  certainly 
had  a  very  queer  expression,  at  once  surprised,  and 
shamefaced,  and  uneasy;  for  a  moment  he  seemed 
about  to  start  away  and  go,  and  then  stood  his 
ground  as  Brunhilda  came  up. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Phillips,  Mrs.  Iverson — I  think  he's 
met  all  the  others.  Oh,  and  Mr.  Iverson!" 

"Well,  we  certainly  have  met  before,  haven't  we?" 
said  Mr.  Phillips,  shaking  Leslie's  hand  warmly. 

"Why,  do  you  know,  I  thought  your  name  was 
Hillis,"  said  Leslie,  with  what  seemed  somewhat 
forced  heartiness. 

"No;  Phillips.  Mr.  Dorimon  speaks  rather  in- 
distinctly sometimes.  I  met  your  husband  at  Boggy- 
brae,  Mrs.  Iverson,  last  Wednesday.  We  had  a  fine 
time." 

"It  couldn't  have  been  Wednesday,  for  that  was 
the  day  I  persuaded  him  to  go  to  a  directors'  meeting, 
and  he  brought  me  home  his  ten-dollar  gold  piece," 
said  Winifred  guilelessly — and  could  have  bitten 
out  her  tongue  the  next  instant. 

"It  was — ah,  Thursday,  of  course,"  said  Mr. 
Phillips  unwinkingly.  "Your  husband  plays  a 
great  game,  Mrs.  Iverson,  a  great  game!" 

The  Iversons  walked  part  of  the  distance  home 
with  the  Bannards;  the  rest  of  the  way  they  were 
perfectly  silent.  The  stars  had  come  out  and  the 
weather  had  turned  colder;  their  hurrying  feet  echoed 
along  the  frosty  pavement  with  a  lonely  sound  as  if 


BOGGYBRAE  153 

it  were  very  late  in  the  night;  the  key  rang  in  the 
lock. 

Winifred  went  upstairs  at  once.  When  Leslie 
entered  the  room  a  few  minutes  later,  stepping  more 
heavily  than  was  his  wont,  she  came  swiftly  toward 
him. 

"There,"  she  said,  in  a  breathless  voice,  holding 
out  the  gold  piece  at  arm's  length. 

He  made  a  quick  gesture  of  repudiation.  "I 
don't  want  it!" 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't!"  She  threw  it  down  on 
the  table.  "I  wouldn't  touch  it  now  for  anything 
on  earth!"  Her  dark  eyes  blazed  at  him,  her  cheeks 
burned.  Her  voice  rose:  "I  would  go  without  a 
rug  forever  before  I'd  buy  one  with  the  price  of — 
lies;  yes,  lies!  When  you  were  planning  to  deceive 
me,  just  for  a  miserable  game  of  golf.  And  you 
were  at  Boggybrae  all  the  time!  I  can  never  forget 
it,  I  can  never  forget  that  you  lied  to  me.  I  can 
never — 

"Stop!"  said  her  husband,  in  a  curiously  level  tone 
that  yet  seemed  to  carry  a  controlling  force  with  it. 
"Stop  right  now,  before  you  say  anything  more  you'll 
be  sorry  for.  Sit  down  in  that  chair." 

His  hand  gently  but  firmly  pushed  her  into  it, 
with  her  head  resting  against  the  back.  After  a 
moment  or  two  her  whole  body  seemed  to  relax;  the 
tears  began  to  well  up  in  her  eyes  and  stream  down 
her  cheeks.  She  groped  blindly  for  her  handkerchief. 

He  stooped  over  and  picked  it  up  off  the  floor. 
"Here  it  is."  He  thrust  it  into  her  fingers,  and 


154         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

then  sat  down  beside  her,  clasping  her  other  hand  in 
his. 

"Now,  don't  get  to  crying,"  he  warned  her.  "You 
know  it  will  only  make  you  ill  to-morrow.  There, 
that's  better.  Now  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me.  I 
ought  to  have  told  you  before,  but  I  knew  you'd  cut 
up  about  the  rug — though  there's  no  need  to — and 
I  wanted  to  wait  until  you'd  sure-enough  bought  it. 
I  didn't  lie  to  you,  but  I  let  you  think  what  wasn't 
so — and  I  shouldn't  have,  that's  true  enough." 

A  shudder  went  through  her,  but  a  pressure  of 
his  hand  warned  her  to  control. 

"Want  to  hear  the  rest?  Well,  be  quiet  then.  I 
was  so  busy  Wednesday  when  I  got  into  town  that  I 
hadn't  a  minute  to  call  up  Mr.  Dorimon  until  late 
in  the  morning,  and  then  I  found  that  he'd  left  the 
office,  and  they  didn't  know  when  he'd  be  back. 
And  just  after  that  Jackson  came  in  and  paid  me 
twenty-five  dollars  I  lent  him  before  I  was  married, 
and  never  expected  to  see  again.  So  I  thought  it  was 
no  harm  to  take  your  ten  out  of  that.  I  caught  the 
train  out  here  to  get  my  clubs  and  chased  back  again 
to  meet  the  motor." 

"Then  Brunhilda  did  see  you!" 

"Yes.  I  did  want  you  to  get  that  rug,  Win,  before 
I  told  you !  As  far  as  the  directors'  meeting  was  con- 
cerned I  was  only  too  glad  not  to  have  to  go  to  it,  as 
things  went.  I  knew  all  the  time  it  was  really  better 
for  me  to  stay  away;  you  wouldn't  understand,  dear, 
if  I  explained;  there's  too  much  back  of  it.  You  see, 
you  may  be  all  right  in  theory,  Win,  but  when  it 


BOGGYBRAE  155 

comes  to  managing  my  own  affairs  I've  got  to  be  the 
judge.  And  that  couple  of  hours  with  Mr.  Dorimon 
did  more  for  me  than  I  could  ever  have  got  without 
it;  I'd  been  trying  before  to  get  him  to  order  from 
us,  and  Wilmer  fixed  up  this  chance  for  me — I  swear 
I'll  never  forget  it!  I've  been  carrying  more  lately 
than  I  let  on  to  you.  Feel  better  now,  dear?  I'm 
going  to  turn  that  other  fifteen  over  to  you,  so  that 
you  can  buy  a  hat  or — well,  I  mean  something  that 
you  need." 

"Oh,  Leslie,  you  think  me  so  foolish!"  Winifred's 
words  came  muffled  from  his  shoulder,  where  his  hand 
was  smoothing  her  dark  hair. 

"You  bet  I  don't!  I  don't  think  you're  foolish 
at  all.  You're  my  sweet  wife.  Now  don't  begin  to 
cry  again,  dear."  He  lifted  her  head  so  that  her 
eyes  faced  his.  "You  help  me  in  a  hundred  ways  I 
don't  tell  you  of;  perhaps  I  ought  to,  but  I  can't 
seem  to.  Why,  some  days  in  the  office  when  I  think 
of  you  and  little  Matilda  waiting  home  here  for  me 
and  how  fine  and  good  and  true  you  are,  dear,  and 
how  much  you  believe  in  me,  I  get  all  soft;  I  feel  as 
if  I  couldn't  work  hard  enough  for  you.  I  just  feel 
as  if  I  had  a  lot  to  live  up  to." 

"Oh,  Leslie!"  Winifred  clung  to  his  hand  with 
his  eyes  still  plunged  into  the  upturned  ones.  She 
sighed,  with,  however,  a  little  note  of  comfort  in  the 
sigh. 

"As  if  I  didn't  know  I  had  a  lot  to  live  up  to,  too, 
dearest — with  you!"  she  protested  with  sudden,  sweet 
fierceness.  "Nothing  can  ever  come  between  us,  can 


156         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED' 

\ 

it,  even  when  I'm  horrid.     Yes,  I  was  horrid,  and 

you  know  it No;  don't  speak;  I  was!    That  old 

Mrs.  Fremer — she  makes  me  so  cross;  but  then,  poor 
thing,  we  all  know  what  her  husband  is.  Perhaps 
it's  no  wonder  she  thinks  the  wife  and  mother  has 
to  be  everything!" 

"Well,   she's   a  pretty   good   deal,"   said  Leslie 
soberly. 


BENSON'S  DAY 

BENSON  CLARK,  hat  in  hand,  sat  in  the 
gilded  lobby  of  the  hotel,  with  its  pic- 
torial pink-and-green  frescoed  walls,  just 
outside  the  gayly  musical  tea  room,  where  dancers 
tangoed  carefully  between  its  tables.  His  lean  face — 
still  young  in  spite  of  those  deep  lines  in  it,  as  though 
he  had  been  pulling  upstream  for  a  long  time — was 
bent  eagerly  forward,  and  his  keen  eyes,  under  their 
straight  brows,  watched  the  revolving  entrance  doors 
for  the  first  glimpse  of  Cecelie's  light  figure  lilting  in, 
with  that  graceful  way  she  had,  and  her  golden  head 
held  high.  It  was  a  girl's  privilege  to  be  late,  of 
course,  though  he  had  travelled  for  two  days  to  see  her 
and  should  leave  the  following  night. 

He  had  been  waiting  a  long  time,  but  so  had  others. 

It  began  to  seem  like  a  mysterious  game,  in  which 
the  people  who  were  seated  watched  for  those  who 
did  not  appear,  while  the  newcomers  eagerly  scanned 
the  lines  for  those  who  were  not  there — only  at  far 
intervals  two  figures  scored  by  matching,  in  joyful, 
subdued  surprise,  before  hurrying  off  together. 

Benson  was  not  a  dweller  in  the  big  city — only 
coming  here  on  rare  trips,  like  the  present,  from  the 
mining  town  he  happened  to  be  in.  All  the  sights 
and  sounds — the  environment,  the  people — had  for 

157 


158         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

the  moment  an  agreeable  foreignness  that  produced  a 
vague  exhilaration  in  addition  to  that  absorbing 
prospect  of  meeting  Cecelie,  but  with  some  vaguely 
depressing  undercurrent,  because  as  yet  she  had  not 
come. 

He  had  forborne  to  scan  too  closely  the  faces  of  the 
throng  near  him  for  fear  of  finding  some  hampering 
acquaintance — he  had  travelled  enough  to  be  apt  to 
meet  people  he  knew  in  any  scene — but  now  a  large- 
busted,  bare-throated  lady,  rising  from  the  chair 
beside  him,  revealed  just  beyond  a  slender,  prettily 
dressed  young  woman  with  a  delicate  profile  about 
which  there  seemed  to  grow  something  pleasingly 
familiar.  As  his  eyes  rested  on  her  she  dropped  her 
muff  and,  reaching  for  it,  let  fall  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a 
pocketbook.  The  next  instant  he  was  before  her, 
stooping  for  them. 

"Allow  me,  Mrs.  Varley!  Perhaps  you  don't 
remember  me,  Benson  Clark." 

"Oh,  I  do — I  do!"  cried  Mrs.  Varley.  A  pretty 
flush  overspread  her  face  as  she  reached  out  her  hand 
impulsively  to  him.  "To  think  that  it  is  eight  years 
since  we  met,  when  Ferd  and  I  were  on  our  wedding 
trip!  And  you  were  so  good!  How  did  you  happen 
to  recognize  me?" 

"I  didn't  quite — until  you  began  dropping  things, " 
he  answered  with  a  smile,  seating  himself  beside  her, 
still  conscious,  as  he  talked,  of  every  person  who 
passed  or  entered  the  revolving  doors,  with  that  dual 
perception  that  was  one  of  his  characteristics. 
"That  brought  everything  back." 


BENSON'S  DAY  159 

"Wasn't  it  silly!"  said  Mrs.  Varley.  Her  eyes 
shone  with  delighted  reminiscence  as  she  began  talk- 
ing faster  and  faster.  "And  wasn't  Ferd  cross? 
I  think  people  on  their  wedding  trip  are  too  funny  for 
anything — neither  one  knows  what  the  other  is 
going  to  get  deeply  injured  at.  I  can  see  his  face  now 
as  he  was  introducing  you  to  me  on  the  hotel  steps, 
and  all  my  letters  blew  away,  and  the  comb  fell  out 
of  my  hair,  and  the  cologne  bottle  dropped  from  my 
bag  and  smashed!" 

"You  laughed,"  said  Benson  admonishingly. 

"Yes;  and  that  only  made  things  worse.  I  think 
Ferd  was  morbidly  afraid  that  people  would  think  me 
childish  and  awkward — and  he  wanted  me  to  seem 
perfect."  Her  eyes  brimmed  happily.  "You  were 
so  lovely  that  day — taking  us  to  dinner  and  for  the 
drive,  and  never  forgetting  me  for  a  moment;  and 
showing  all  the  time  that  you  knew  Ferd  was  really 
fine,  when  he  was  so  miserable  and  grumpy,  and 
couldn't  say  a  word — not  a  bit  like  a  honeymooner! 
Real  things  turn  out  so  different  from  the  way  you 
dream  them,  don't  they?  We've  often  laughed 
over  that  day  since;  but  we've  always  loved  to  talk 
of  you.  I  nearly  called  my  youngest  child  Clark. 
Are  you  married?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?     You  ought  to  be — a  man  like  you!" 

He  offered  the  official  masculine  answer: 

"I  can't  get  anybody  to  have  me.  It's  true! 
You  have  more  than  one  child?" 

"Four!"     She  flashed   a   proud   glance   at  him. 


160         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"The  youngest  is  two — so  grown  up!  I  haven't 
any  baby  any  more."  Her  tone  seemed  to  have  a 
divine  half -regret  in  it.  She  broke  off:  "What 
have  you  been  doing  all  this  time?" 

"  Working — mostly."  He  hesitated  slightly  before 
going  on;  something  in  her  clear  eyes  seemed  to  draw 
him  to  further  speech.  "You  spoke  of  real  things 
being  different  from  .one's  dreams  of  them — don't 
you  think  we  ever  'dream  true'?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No!  Dreams  turn  out  better,  often;  but,  so  far 
as  the  details  go,  always  different.  It's  strange  how 
clever  they  are  in  eluding  us.  I  always  thought  my 
husband  would  have  a  tenor  voice — and  he's  Ferd! 
Oh,  here  he  is  now !  Ferd,  who  do  you  think  this  is  ?  " 

"I  won't  have  to  go  very  far  to  find  out,"  said  Mr. 
Varley  heartily. 

He  had  none  of  the  graces  of  his  wife;  but  in  his 
large  and  slightly  shabby  aspect  as  a  family  man  his 
kind  smile,  shining  as  through  a  dusty  haze  of  busi- 
ness preoccupation,  showed  him  to  be  the  good  fellow 
he  was.  Wealth  was  evidently  one  of  the  dreams 
that  had  not  materialized. 

They  all  stood  talking  together,  both  men  with  a 
little  tender,  chivalrous  attitude  toward  pretty  Mrs. 
Varley  in  the  midst  of  the  more  jovial  manner. 
Wlien  the  couple  parted  from  Benson,  after  an  eager 
invitation  for  a  future  meeting,  he  sat  down  once 
more  and  watched  them  as  they  went  off  together, 
with  a  sort  of  God-bless-you-my-children-feeling, 
though  Varley  ranked  him  by  half  a  dozen  years. 


BENSON'S  DAY  161 

It  made  him  somehow  feel  lonely.  Just  this  big, 
simple,  commonplace  happiness  of  theirs  was  what  he 
had  grown  to  long  for  more  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  though  the  chances  seemed  less  and  less  that 
he  would  ever  have  it;  the  mere  idea  of  linking 
Cecelie  with  it  was  like  tethering  a  will-o'-the-wisp 
to  one's  hearthstone.  All  through  the  pleasant  con- 
versation he  had  been  conscious  of  a  gradual  sinking 
of  the  heart. 

The  lobby  was  thinning  out;  people  had  drifted 
off.  He  realized  now — what  he  had  known  from  the 
first,  with  a  foreboding  to  which  he  had  refused  to 
give  heed — that  she  would  not,  after  all  her  promises, 
come  to  meet  him.  The  fact  struck  him  hard. 

It  was  more  than  four  years  since  they  had  first  met; 
they  had  spent  a  month  in  the  same  summer  camp 
together.  He  had  not  really  known  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love  until  he  had  gone  home — perhaps  be- 
cause the  mere  fact  of  being  with  her  had  absorbed 
all  power  of  thought.  She  was  a  veritable  gleam  of  a 
girl — when  you  left  her  everything  else  seemed  dark 
and  you  could  not  tell  in  just  what  her  charm  lay. 
She  had  that  magnetic  drawing  power  which  is  often 
independent  of  the  will  of  its  possessor,  and  which, 
once  felt  by  the  victim,  refuses  to  release  its  hold. 

She  was  slender  and  not  so  tall  as  she  looked; 
her  hair  was  golden;  her  eyes  varied  in  colour  with  her 
mood;  she  had  a  pearly  skin,  and  a  red  mouth  that 
was  as  lovely  when  it  drooped  as  when  it  smiled. 

They  swam  and  fished,  and  had  played  tennis, 
danced  and  driven  together.  She  was  what  is  called 


162         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

a  good  sport.  They  had  tramped  in  the  rain,  and 
they  had  read  lying  out  under  the  trees  in  the  sun; 
she  broke  her  engagements  with  everyone  else  for 
him.  She  had  the  courage  of  her  delightfully  au- 
dacious moods — you  never  could  tell  what  she  might 
say  or  do! — and  she  had  also  the  most  irrational 
timidities,  out  of  which  she  could  not  be  argued. 
She  had  a  physical  elusiveness  that  partook  of  her 
quality  of  light. 

As  soon  as  Benson  reached  home  he  had  written 
to  her,  asking  her  to  marry  him.  She  had  replied 
very  sweetly,  pleading  for  time  to  decide.  He  had 
kissed  the  letter  rapturously,  with  a  fatuous  vision 
of  the  happiness  to  be  his. 

It  had  been  a  stern  chase  ever  since.  She  had 
never  come  to  any  decision — except  that  he  had 
better  give  up  caring  for  her,  though  she  would  miss 
him  terribly  if  he  did.  They  had  corresponded 
voluminously.  Heavens!  What  hours  he  had  spent 
writing  to  her  from  his  bare  room  in  the  hotel  in  the 
far  Western  town — what  anguished  days  when  her 
replies  were  delayed! 

He  had  been  here  once  or  twice  a  year  to  see  her, 
flying  visits  looked  forward  to  passionately  for 
months — only  to  fail  of  all  satisfaction  but  that  of 
letting  his  hungry  eyes  rest  on  her  in  the  intervals 
of  her  many  engagements,  and  leaving  her  sur- 
rounded by  a  host  of  men,  with  the  anguished 
thought  that  if  he  could  only  stay  he  might  win  her. 
She  wrote  him  candidly  of  all  she  was  doing — scant 
comfort  in  that! 


BENSON'S  DAY  163 

There  was  the  letter  in  which  she  thought  it 
right  to  tell  him  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with. a 
young  officer,  home  on  leave.  Benson  would  always 
remember  the  night  after  he  received  that  letter — he 
had  walked  and  walked,  out  of  town  and  along  the 
railroad  track  that  stretched  lonesomely  across  the 
prairie — walked  until  the  gray  dawn  drove  him  back, 
his  face  drawn  and  his  eyes  burnt  out  as  if  from  the 
heat  of  the  fires  of  hell.  It  was  two  weeks  before 
he  heard  from  her  again;  then  she  said,  thank  good- 
ness, the  officer  was  gone;  and  she  hated  every  man 
but  Benson. 

Then  there  was  that  time  he  would  always  remem- 
ber by  what  he  had  missed — it  was  just  after  his  last 
visit — when  she  had  been  too  unkind,  and  in  one  of 
her  audacious  flights  she  had  journeyed  thirty-six 
hours  by  train  to  the  town  where  he  then  lived  to  tell 
him  how  dreadfully  sorry  she  was,  and  take  the  return 
train  that  left  in  an  hour.  And  then,  in  a  panic  of 
maiden  timidity  when  she  alighted  at  the  station,  she 
had  taken  that  return  train  without  seeing  him! 
She  had  written  and  confessed  it  all.  And  she  had 
been  so  near! 

After  that  had  come  the  period  when  she  not  only 
hated  men  but  Benson  among  them,  and  had  left  the 
world  to  work  among  the  little  children  in  a  settle- 
ment for  two  or  three  months — and  was  quite  happy 
because,  for  once,  she  was  some  good  in  the  world ; 
or  would  have  been  happy  if  it  were  not  for  a  strange 
feeling  at  times  that  there  was  something  wrong 
about  her;  she  could  not  seem  really  to  love  any  one 


164         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

— not  even  him! — and  so  would  have  to  miss  what 
luckier  women  had.  Then  she  had  come  back  to 
society  gayer  than  ever. 

And  once — he  reddened  now  as  he  remembered 
that — he  had  captured  her  masterfully  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her.  She  had  stood  quite  still,  with  an 
icy  disdain  that  took  all  the  fire  from  his  blood. 

"Well,  I  never!  If  here  isn't  my  little  Bennie 
again!" 

A  clear  voice,  with  a  strong  English  accent,  brought 
him  instantly  to  his  feet  as  a  tall  lady,  passing  with  a 
largely  moustached  gentleman,  held  out  her  hand. 
She  had  brilliant  auburn  hair,  eyes  of  intense  blue, 
with  artificial  shadows  below  them,  and  a  high  colour 
so  natural  that  it  flooded  her  face  as  she  spoke.  Her 
clinging  green  silk  gown,  adorned  with  dabs  of  fur, 
revealed  an  angular  yet  graceful  thinness;  she  wore  a 
small  straw  hat,  trimmed  with  pink  rosebuds,  gold 
braid,  and  a  mauve  feather,  on  her  vivid  hair. 

"  Mrs.  Batsf ord-Wring ! " 

"Well,  we  do  meet,  don't  we?  It  was  the  Rawkies 
last.  I  haven't  a  moment  now;  but  come  and  see 
us — we're  visitin'  friends  at  the  Ayreslea.  Do 
now!" 

"I'd  like  to;  but  I  leave  to-morrow  night,"  Benson 
called  after  her  as  she  hurried  on.  Everybody  was 
kind  but  Cecelie! 

Benson  had  hurried,  on  his  arrival  the  evening  be- 
fore, to  the  big  house  where  she  lived  with  her  father. 
After  her  last  letter  he  had  telegraphed  her  that  he 
was  coming.  Heaven  only  knows  with  what  dreams 


BENSON'S  DAY  165 

he  always  came!  She  was  lovelier  than  «ver  as  she 
lilted  across  the  floor  to  greet  him,  with  her  golden 
head  thrown  back  and  her  laughing  eyes  raised  to  his. 
She  seemed  very  glad  to  see  him. 

The  room  was  filled  with  a  family  party.  He  had 
talked  to  her  iron-visaged  banker  father,  to  large  and 
smiling  Aunt  Ida,  thin  and  joking  Uncle  Henry,  and 
fragile  old  Cousin  Bella,  who  seemed  held  together 
with  such  difficulty  that  she  might  dissolve  at  any 
minute. 

After  his  first  blank  dismay  he  had  been  patiently 
sure  of  a  reward.  It  came  as  he  was  leaving :  Cecelie 
had  asked  him  to  meet  her  at  the  Venetia  at  half -past 
four  the  next  day,  and  they  would  have  their  after- 
noon uninterrupted.  And,  after  all,  she  had  not 
come!  Oh,  she  never  kept  her  promises — she  fooled 
you  every  time!  "What  would  have  alienated  in  an- 
other was  only  a  deeper  allure  in  her;  she  drew  like  a 
magnet,  whatever  she  did.  Why  must  she  always 
fly  from  him  when  he  was  near? 

He  had  an  incredibly  insistent  vision  of  following 
after  her  down  a  long,  dark  street  of  years,  when,  as 
fast  as  she  fled,  he  gradually  gained  and  gamed  until 
his  arms  closed  tight  round  her;  and  instead  of  stand- 
ing icily  still  in  that  embrace  she  leaned  to  him,  with 
her  warm  lips  upraised  to  his.  Different,  indeed, 
from  the  reality! 

In  the  intense  bitterness  that  surged  over  him  now 
existence  seemed  nauseating;  this  state  of  things  was 
sapping  at  the  very  roots  of  life.  What  a  spineless 
thing  he  had  become!  He  swore  to  himself  in  an 


166         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

access  of  cold  fury  that,  one  way  or  another,  this  time 
the  thing  should  end. 

There  she  was  now — coming  down  the  corridor, 
with  a  slight,  pale  girl  and  two  men;  one  dark,  super- 
cilious, and  foreign,  the  other  a  tall  boy,  leaning  over 
her  entranced.  As  Benson  jumped  up  she  detached 
herself  from  the  group  and  ran  forward  to  meet  him, 
her  light  figure,  under  its  long  fur  stole,  arrayed  in 
something  blue  and  shimmery  that  puffed  out 
above  and  narrowed  down  close  round  her  slender 
ankles,  the  blue  feather  in  her  little  hat  tilting  as  she 
stepped. 

"Ah,  Cecelie!" 

As  she  stretched  out  both  hands  sheer  delight 
filled  him;  her  lovely  face  broke  into  an  irresistible 
smile  when  her  eye  met  his,  as  one  who  owns  herself 
caught,  and  confesses  and  defies  and  pleads  all  at 
once.  When  she  looked  like  that  you  could  not  help 
smiling,  too. 

"You  don't  know  how  awfully  attractive  and 
gloomy  you  looked  sitting  there,  with  your  head  on 
your  hand — I  actually  didn't  recognize  you!"  She 
stopped  short  and  stared  at  him  blankly.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  waiting  for  me  here  all 
the  afternoon?" 

"Oh,  I've  been  strolling  round  part  of  the  time," 
he  replied,  with  a  startled  glance  at  the  clock.  "I'd 
no  idea  it  was  so  late;  but  everything's  all  right,  now 
you've  come." 

"Oh,  but  I  haven't!"  she  mourned.  "I'm  with  a 
party.  It  was  an  old  engagement.  When  I  found  I 


BENSON'S  DAY  167 

couldn't  meet  you  I  telephoned  you;  I  felt  dread- 
fully about  it." 

"All  right;  we'll  let  it  go  at  that,"  said  Benson, 
gay ly .  ' '  Leave  your  friends  now  and  come  with  me ! ' ' 

Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Very  well— I  will.  Oh,  no— I  can't!"  She 
looked  genuinely  distressed.  "There's  a  girl  I  can't 
leave — what  a  shame!  I'll  tell  you — you  come  with 
us;  it  was  one  of  the  things  I  tried  to  telephone  you 
about.  We  are  to  dine  and  go  to  the  theatre." 
Her  lips  took  on  their  coaxing  smile;  her  eyes  plunged 
into  his.  "Do!  You  shall  sit  by  me  all  the  time — 
I  promise  you." 

His  face  changed.     "No." 

"Oh,  dear!  You  make  me  so  unhappy!"  She 
gazed  at  him  in  tender  concern,  with  that  provoca- 
tive effect  of  sweetly  giving  that  meant — as  he  knew 
so  well — instant  withdrawal  if  one  presumed  on  it. 
"Why  do  you  take  everything  so  seriously?"  Her 
voice  dropped  to  a  pleading  tone.  "  Why  won't  you 
be  good  and  come  with  us?" 

"Because  I'm  tired  of  only  seeing  you  with  a  ruck 
of  other  people.  Will  you  be  home  to-morrow 
morning?" 

Her  eyes  grew  suddenly  misty. 

"Why,  yes."  She  added  hastily:  "I  have  to  go 
out  at  eleven." 

Benson  smiled,  a  peculiar  smile  that  gave  an  oddly 
sweet  expression  to  his  worn  face  and  a  keener  glance 
to  his  eyes.  "This  time  I'll  be  there  before  you  go 
out,"  he  said  significantly. 


168         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

II 

IT  WAS,  in  fact,  hardly  half -past  ten  when  Cecelie 
came  slowly  lilting  down  the  brownstone  steps  of  the 
house,  dressed  in  sober  gray,  with  big  gray  furs,  and  a 
little  gray  hat  pulled  down  closely  over  her  lovely 
golden  head.  She  looked  thoughtfully  up  and  down 
the  street — the  air  was  cold,  the  pale  blue  sky  full  of 
white  and  wandering  clouds  that  had  come  over  from 
the  countryside  across  the  river.  Down  the  block 
some  little  children  were  roller-skating  with  gay  cries; 
no  one  else  was  in  sight,  as  she  casually  assured  her- 
self. As  she  gazed,  a  limousine  waiting  opposite 
whirled  around,  stopped,  and  Benson  jumped  out, 
lifting  his  hat  as  he  came  toward  her. 

"Good  morning!  I  told  you  you  couldn't  escape 
me  this  time." 

"Oh,  but  I  was  coming  back — honestly!  I  was, 
indeed.  I  was  only  going  up  to  the  sewing  school," 
she  protested  hastily.  "I  left  word  for  you  to  wait 
forme.  I- 

She  stopped  short  suddenly  and  began  to  laugh, 
her  eye  resting  on  him  with  involuntary  approval. 
He  looked  extremely  well  groomed  and  was  dressed 
with  particular  nicety.  His  lavender  tie  harmonized 
with  his  brown  suit  and  big  overcoat,  and  the  soft 
hat  was  brown  of  a  slightly  lighter  shade;  his  gloves 
were  of  the  freshest.  His  face,  usually  pale,  had  a 
colour  in  it,  and  his  laughing  eyes  seemed  peculiarly 
bright.  A  new  exhilaration  breathed  from  him. 

"  But  I'll  go  back  to  the  house  now.     Come  on  in ! " 


BENSON'S  DAY  169 

"No;  that's  not  necessary.  I'll  take  you  on  to 
your  sewing  school — or  whatever  it  is.  Let  me  help 
you  in." 

He  gave  the  directions  to  the  chauffeur,  stepping 
in  after  her  hastily  and  closing  the  door.  As  he 
sat  down  beside  her  a  certain  tenseness  in  him  seemed 
to  relax;  he  gave  a  quick  sigh  of  relief. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  limousine?"  she  ques- 
tioned. 

"Hired  it.  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot!"  He  reached 
down  under  the  seat  and  brought  up  a  great  bunch 
of  violets.  "Please  put  them  on  at  once.  Here's 
the  pin." 

"I  thought  I  sinelled  something  very  sweet," 
she  said  gratefully,  burying  her  flower-like  face  in 
them.  "Confess!  Didn't  you  regret  not  coming 
with  me  last  night?" 

"Infinitely!"  His  bright  gaze  rested  on  her. 
"I  went  to  see  some  nice  people  I'd  met  in  the  after- 
noon— they're  very  happy  and  have  four  children; 
you  wouldn't  be  interested  to  hear  of  them.  But  I 
couldn't  stay.  Then  a  man  I  knew  found  me  and 
I  didn't  get  rid  of  him  until  he  became  intoxicated. 
I  was  wild  for  you!  But  I  shouldn't  have  fitted  in 
with  your  party.  I'd  have  knifed  your  dark  friend 
and  just  naturally  choked  that  slobbering  youth. 
The  young  girl  wouldn't  have  enjoyed  herself. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"Oh,  Benson,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  care  for  me  so 
much!"  said  Cecelie.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
She  put  out  her  slim,  gray-gloved  hand  and  laid  it  on 


170         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

his  coat  sleeve  lightly  for  an  instant.  "If  you  knew 
how  I'd  thought  about  you!  I — 

"Haven't  you  cared  sometimes,  too — a  little?" 

"Yes — oh,  yes — lots!  When  you're  away  you 
seem  so  near  to  me;  I  fancy  each  time  before  I  see  you 
that  it's  going  to  be. — And  then  it  isn't !  I  only  want 
to  get  away!  I've  tried  and  tried  to  make  myself 
love  you,  but  there's  some  dreadful  twist  in  me.  I 
cry  sometimes  because  you're  so  good  to  me — honest 
I  do!  I  couldn't  bear  you  not  to  care  for  me  any 
more."  Her  golden  eyelashes  drooped;  her  breath 
caught.  "I've  thought  sometimes  I'd  get  married 
and  trust  to  the  love  coming  afterward — but  I  know 
I'd  go  crazy  if  I  felt  that  I  couldn't  get  free.  There 
was  something  left  out  of  my  composition  when  the 
Lord  made  me — I  just  can't  care  for  any  one." 

She  buried  her  tearful  face  against  the  violets,  as  if 
for  comfort  from  then*  soft  and  fragrant  depths. 

"I  wouldn't  feel  that  way  about  it."  said  Benson. 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  look  up  suddenly; 
her  gaze  took  in  the  outer  scene  and  her  voice 
changed. 

"Why,  Benson!  We've  gone  ever  so  far  beyond 
Fifty-first  Street !  This  is  One  Hundred  and  Fourth." 

"Yes;  I  believe  it  is,"  he  answered,  his  eyes  follow- 
ing hers.  "That's  all  right,  though." 

"  All  right !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why" — he  fumbled  for  words  under  her  direct 

and  indignant  gaze — "why,  it's  this  way,  Cecelie 

For  heaven's  sake,  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  Don't 
get  any  foolishness  into  your  head;  I'm  not  running 


BENSON'S  DAY  171 

away  with  you.  But  you  never  will  give  ine  a  chance 
to  see  you  alone  and  speak  for  myself;  so  this  time 
I've  taken  it.  You're  going  to  spend  this  day  with 
me."  He  put  up  his  hand  detainingly,  as  she  made  a 
movement  forward.  "  There's  no  use  in  your  talking 
to  the  chauffeur — he's  fixed.  I've  got  it  all  planned 
out;  I'm  going  to  take  you  up  into  the  country  to 
Paley's.  I  telegraphed  Mrs.  Paley  from  the  hotel 
this  morning.  I  hear  there's  almost  nobody  there — 
this  time  in  the  week.  We'll  have  a  walk  in  the 
woods  afterward  and  there'll  be  the  long  ride  home. 
It's  my  last  throw!  You'll  either  consent  to  marry 
me  this  evening,  dear — oh,  in  your  father's  house! — 
and  go  back  with  me  to-morrow  morning,  or  I  drop 
out,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned.  There'll  be  no  more 
of  me  ever." 

"You  want  me  to  marry  you  to-night?" 

"That's  what  I  said." 

She  laughed. 

"It  does  sound  funny,  doesn't  it?"  he  answered 
with  a  responsive  smile.  "Hello!" 

The  car  had  slightly  slackened  its  pace  hi  avoiding 
a  construction  truck  that  took  up  all  the  road. 
Swift  as  lightning  Cecelie's  hand  was  on  the  catch  of 
the  door — hi  another  instant  Benson's  arms  were 
around  her,  dragging  her  back,  while  she  fought  him 
wildly.  Then  there  was  a  moment's  fierce  and  silent 
struggle  until  he  held  both  her  hands  hi  his  capable 
grip,  and  gently  forced  her  down  on  the  seat. 

"  Don't  do  that  again ! "  he  ordered  sternly.  "  You 
little  wildcat!  Do  you  want  to  kill  yourself?" 


172         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"You're  not  behaving  like  a  gentleman!"  she 
flared  at  him  furiously. 

"All  right;  let  it  go  at  that." 

"You're  making  me  hate  you — really!" 

"Very  well,  only  don't  try  jumping  out  again; 
it  won't  work!  You  can't  catch  me  off  my  guard." 
His  voice  changed  irritably.  "  For — heaven's — sake ! 
Can't  I  for  once  have  what  I  want — when  it's  so 
little — without  all  this  fuss  about  it?  You  know 
you'd  go  off  for  a  motor  ride  with  any  one  else  without 
turning  a  hair. " 

Her  face  contracted,  she  moved  herself  disdain- 
fully as  far  away  from  him  as  possible  into  the  blue- 
cushioned  corner,  her  gray  furs  half  round  her.  Her 
hair  looked  very  golden,  her  skin  very  pearly,  her  lips 
very  red — but  there  was  a  stony  expression  in  the  gray 
eyes  that  gazed  past  him.  Benson's  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her. 

They  were  whirling  along  now  over  the  post  road 
under  the  wintry  sky,  away  beyond  the  confines  of 
the  city,  with  woods  or  fields  or  scattered  houses  on 
each  side,  and  an  occasional  gateway  leading  into  one 
of  the  big  country  places.  They  rode  on  and  on  and 
on — in  silence. 

Never  had  her  magnetic  charm  been  greater;  yet, 
with  the  quick  perception  of  a  lover,  Benson  was  con- 
scious that  in  this  apparent  success  of  his  temporary 
capture  of  her  he  had  lost  something;  a  slight  in- 
stinctive leaning  toward  him,  which  he  had  always 
felt  unerringly  under  all  her  caprices,  had  changed, 
with  the  merest  hint  of  compulsion,  into  a  steely 


BENSON'S  DAY  173 

resistance  that  might  turn  at  any  moment  into 
downright  dislike. 

He  grimly  foresaw  only  failure  at  the  end  of  his 
day,  yet  his  exhilaration  remained.  Who  that  says 
he  has  no  hope  really  has  none?  We  get  ahead  in 
life  by  counting  the  milestones  to  the  hopes  we  never 
reach!  He  wondered  how  much  her  pretty  shoes 
cost,  with  a  tender  sense  of  possession;  for  the  time 
being  she  was  his  anyhow. 

Suddenly  Cecelie  hid  her  face  hi  her  arm,  she 
shook  from  head  to  foot. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  bending  over,  in 
quick  distress.  "Cecelie — you're  not  feeling  so 
badly  as  that,  dear?  Cecelie!" 

"Don't,"  she  said,  in  a  strangled  voice,  and  sud- 
denly raised  her  face.  She  was  shaking  with  laugh- 
ter. "Oh,  dear!"  she  gasped.  "It's  all  so  perfectly 
ridiculous!  You  sit  looking  at  me,  with  your  eyes 
getting  bigger  and  bigger,  like  an  owl's.  It's  any- 
thing but  se-se-ductive.  Oh,  dear!"  Her  voice 
rose  piercingly  in  peal  after  peal,  with  a  caught 
breath  in  between. 

"Stop!"  said  Benson  peremptorily,  as  her  voice 
became  an  hysterical  shriek.  "Stop!  Stop!  Stop! 
The  people  hi  the  two  cars  that  just  passed  us  are 
looking  back — one  is  turning  round!  We'll  have 
the  police  after  us.  Stop,  Cecelie!  Stop,  I  say!" 

"I  can't— I  can't!" 

"Yes,  you  can.     You  hear  me?    You  must!" 

"I  can't— I  can't!" 

"You  must. "    The  contagion  of  a  smile  spread  to 


174         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

his  own  face,  but  the  control  in  his  voice  reached  her. 
"There,  there!  You're  letting  up  a  little.  Lie 
back  in  the  cushions  and  rest.  Heavens!  What  a 
care  you  are  to  me!" 

"Yes;  I  hope  you  realize  that,"  she  said  defiantly. 
"I  don't  see  what  you  brought  me  out  for  if  you're 
only  going  to  sit  and  stare  at  me." 

"Oh,  we've  got  plenty  of  time  to  talk.  For  one 
thing,  I  was  wondering  how  much  your  clothes  cost 
— I  see  you'll  be  an  awful  bill  of  expense  to  me! 
But  I  fancy  I  can  stand  it — I've  been  saving  up  for 
four  years."  His  voice  changed.  "Another  thing  I 
was  thinking  of — you  remember  that  'Last  Ride,'  by 
Browning,  you  used  to  read  to  me  in  Maine?  I'm 
not  much  on  poetry,  you  know,  but  I  liked  that.  I 
was  imagining  now  how  we  might  go  on  like  this 
forever — in  a  limousine!  That's  modernizing  it 
with  a  vengeance,  isn't  it?  I'm  counting  a  lot  on 
that  ride  back  this  evening.  Suppose  the  world  did 
end  to-night?" 

"Benson,  don't!"  she  said  plaintively.  "I'm 
beginning  to  feel  queer."  She  put  out  her  hand  with 
an  appealing  little  gesture.  Her  red  lips  quivered; 
her  lovely  eyes  sought  his. 

"Benson!  Benson,  I'm  tired.  If  you  love  me 
take  me  home.  You  don't  know  how  nice  I'll  be  to 
you;  honest,  I  will!  Please  do." 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly — her  eyes  shifted; 
her  eyelids  fell.  He  smiled  and  slowly  shook  his 
head. 

"Sorry;  but  I  can't." 


BENSON'S  DAY  175 

She  flushed  hotly  and  drew  quickly  over  into  her 
corner. 

"Then  take  the  consequences!"  she  said,  and 
turned  her  face  from  him. 

Ill 

PALEY'S  was  seventy  miles  from  town.  In  summer 
it  was  a  charming  place — all  a  green  latticework  of 
dining  balconies  overlooking  the  woodland  and  the 
inlet;  but  in  the  frozen  whiter  it  had  a  somewhat 
chilly  and  meretricious  air,  like  a  lady  in  a  low- 
necked  muslin  standing  on  the  ice.  The  small  room, 
however — empty  as  Benson  had  hoped  it  would  be — 
was  warm  with  crimson  rugs  and  a  leaping  fire; 
the  cloth  on  the  little  table  set  for  two  seemed  daz- 
zlingly  white,  the  silver  and  glass  on  the  oaken  shelves 
unusually  glittering.  There  was  an  atmosphere  of 
warmth  and  hominess  about  the  place;  Mrs. 
Paley  herself,  rosy-cheeked  and  white-aproned,  came 
forward  to  welcome  them,  and  led  Cecelie  away  to 
take  off  her  wraps. 

The  little  meal,  when  it  was  served,  was  charming, 
the  waiter  assiduous,  his  eyes  popping  out  inter- 
mittently like  rabbits  from  behind  a  bush.  The 
only  drawback  was  that  Cecelie,  lovelier  than  ever 
in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  sat  with  one  elbow  on  the 
table,  her  head  turned  away,  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  frozen  inlet  and  the  tall  lightning- 
scarred  tree  in  the  distance — in  the  far  top  of 
which  dangled  something  that  the  waiter  explained 
was  a  fish-hawk's  deserted  nest — and  refused,  in 


176         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

spite  of  Benson's  consternation,  even  to  taste  any- 
thing. 

"But  don't  let  that  make  any  difference  to  you," 
she  urged  amiably.  "Eat  all  you  want." 

"Oh,  I  will!"  he  replied  coolly,  yet  with  a  chagrin 
it  was  impossible  not  to  feel. 

He  had  looked  forward  to  that  little  meal  alone 
with  her,  had  been  boyishly  desirous  that  everything 
should  be  of  the  best,  and  that  it  should  please  her. 
He  was  a  hungry  man;  but  it  is  hard  to  eat  enjoy- 
ingly  through  a  bill  of  fare  with  a  speechless  vis-a- 
vis who  will  not  so  much  as  drink  a  glass  of  water 
with  you.  The  waiter's  assiduity  became  more  and 
more  agitated;  he  bent  lower  and  lower  with  each 
dish,  until  he  seemed  almost  to  be  proffering  it  on 
bended  knee  to  the  beautiful  lady,  who  always  re- 
fused. 

There  were  voluble,  half -heard  conversations  in  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Paley  herself  appeared  again,  deeply 
solicitous.  Was  there  anything  the  young  lady 
would  like?  It  could  be  cooked  in  a  moment. 
Cecelie's  golden  lashes  lifted;  her  eyes  responded 
sweetly  as  well  as  her  voice : 

"Thank  you  so  much;  but  I  really  don't  want  any- 
thing." 

Benson  could  hardly  help  fondly  smiling  at  the 
effect  she  produced;  but  he  pushed  his  dessert  away 
from  him  untasted  at  last. 

"I  would  like  to  shake  you!"  he  stated  soberly. 

"Well,  I  never!"  said  a  clear  voice,  with  an  Eng- 
lish accent.  "Well,  we  do  meet,  don't  we?" 


BENSON'S  DAY  177 

Benson  turned  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  From  the 
side  door  the  auburn-haired  Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  was 
approaching.  She  wore  the  furry  green  silk  and 
yellow  straw  hat,  with  a  motoring  coat  over  her  arm, 
and  was  followed  by  the  gentleman  of  the  night  before, 
tall  and  robustly  bony,  with  a  big  moustache  slightly 
streaked  with  gray,  well-cut  features,  and  a  military 
bearing. 

"What  a  surprise!"  said  Benson,  shaking  hands. 

"This  is  my  brother,  Captain  Hawkly,  just  back 
from  Africa,"  announced  Mrs.  Batsf ord- Wring.  "  Oh, 
I've  told  him  about  me  little  Bennie!  The  motor 
broke  down  with  us;  we  left  it  hi  the  road  with  the 
chauffeur,  and  came  over  here  for  some  tea  before 
taking  the  train  to  town." 

"Miss  Sherwood,  this  is  my  friend,  Mrs. Batsf ord- 
Wring,  who  nearly  saved  my  life  once — when  I  was 
ill  at  Baden — and  earned  my  undying  gratitude — 
and  her  brother,  Captain  Hawkly,"  said  Benson 
formally.  "Miss  Sherwood  is  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Nevitt  Sherwood,  of  whom  you  may  have 
heard." 

"How  d'ye  do?  Some  people  are  so  particular 
about  whom  they  meet  when  they're  travellin* — 
but  I'm  nawt,"  said  Mrs.  Batsford- Wring  pleasantly, 
with  a  stare  at  Cecelie,  who  was  deeply  observing 
in  her  turn,  while  the  captain's  glance  fell  on  her, 
with  the  instantly  resulting  gleam.  "Bennie's  not 
tellin',  though,  of  the  time  he  pulled  me  out  of  the 
snowbank  by  my  leg,  in  the  Dakotah  blizzard. 
That  was  a  night!" 


178         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I  should  say  so!  And  how  is  Mr.  Batsford- 
Wring?"  asked  Benson,  smiling. 

"He  came  a  cropper  in  the  huntin'  field  a  twelve- 
month ago — and  the  best  thing  for  everyone,  too," 
said  his  widow  calmly.  "Poor  Batty!  He  always 
was  a  filthy  brute — I  never  liked  him.  And  you? 
Are  you  not  married  yourself?" 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Benson,  with  an  involuntary 
look  at  Cecelie,  who,  slim  and  graceful  as  a  willow 
wand,  was  talking  to  the  admiring  captain. 

"Shall  we  have  some  tea  together?"  pursued  Mrs. 
Batsford-Wring  hospitably.  "You  were  very  late 
finishin'  your  luncheon,  weren't  you? — but  a  cup  of 
tea  is  refreshin*  at  any  time.  Now  don't  look  at 
your  watch,  Bennie;  you  can't  hurry  off  when  we've 
so  much  to  talk  over.  You'll  have  tea  with  us,  Miss 
Sherwood?" 

"Indeed  I  will!"  said  Cecelie  gayly. 

In  the  slight  bustle  that  ensued  in  getting  another 
table  set  and  the  preparation  of  tea  things,  Benson 
found  a  furtive  chance  to  press  the  hand  by  his  side — 
a  yearning,  clinging  touch,  light  as  it  was,  that 
seemed  to  say:  "Ah,  understand  how  much  I  want 
to  get  off  to  walk  with  you!" 

There  was  no  response,  however.  Her  eyes  when 
they  met  his  had  an  elfish,  mocking  light  in  them. 
His  face  reddened  for  an  instant  and  then  turned  pale, 
set  enigmatically  in  its  lines  of  habitual  patience. 

The  tea-table  episode,  however — if  it  were  not  for 
that  restless  knowledge  of  how  many  precious  mo- 
ments he  was  losing — was  not  in  itself  unpleasing. 


BENSON 'S  DAY  179 

Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  had  the  English  woman's 
soothing  official  attitude  toward  that  superior 
being,  man.  After  ordering  for  her  brother  the 
special  accessories  he  liked,  and  sending  back  his 
toast  to  be  done  over,  and  jumping  up  to  pull  down 
the  blind  a  trifle  to  shade  his  eyes,  she  had  solicitously 
placed  a  screen  between  Benson  and  the  fire,  and  then 
sat  with  her  graceful  lankiness  drooping  toward 
him,  and  her  enormous  violet  eyes  waiting  on  his  as 
she  offered  up  autobiography,  anecdote,  or  sentiment 
for  his  entertainment. 

Benson  was  to  call  her  by  her  pet  name,  Chickie, 
as  he  used  to  do.  She  deftly  cast  a  web  of  comfort 
round  him.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  he  shot  a  glance 
at  Cecelie,  which  said,  dominantly :  "  This  game  is  not 
over  yet,  wait  until  my  time  comes!"  while  she 
smiled  beneath  her  golden  lashes  at  the  captain's 
handsome  face,  her  light  figure,  with  its  suggestion 
of  withdrawal,  her  head  tilted  back  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward, proving,  as  ever,  a  magnet. 

She  seemed  to  murmur  only  provocative  mono- 
syllables to  his  persuasive  eloquence,  which  was 
punctuated  by  the  loud  hawhaws  of  his  delighted  en- 
joyment. Once  Benson  heard  him  murmur: 

"I  aw  a  silly  ass!  If  you'll  only  tell  me  what  you 
want  me  to  say 

And  her  answer: 

"I'll  tell  you  later  if  I  get  a  chance." 

And  his  again: 

"Oh,  if  that's  all,  you'll  get  it!" 

The  remarks  served  to  cut  short  the  tea-hour; 


180         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Benson  stood  up  suddenly  and,  excusing  himself, 
went  to  settle  with  the  beamingly  talkative  Mrs. 
Paley,  and  to  interview  the  chauffeur.  There  was 
time  yet  for  that  planned  walk  with  Cecelie  before 
the  return;  but  when  he  came  back  into  the  room 
Mrs.  Batsford- Wring  was  there  alone,  stretched  out 
indolently  in  a  big  chair  by  the  fire. 

"Your  young  friend  was  tellin'  us  that  you  and 
she  are  only  by  way  of  bein'  chummy,"  she  stated. 
"She  says  it's  quite  the  thing  here — you  go  off  for 
the  day  without  any  preparation  at  all,  you  just 
tellyphone  home;  so  simple,  isn't  it?  My  brother 
is  all  for  making  what  you  call  a  date — is  it  not? — 
with  her." 

"And  where  is  she  now?"  asked  Benson,  looking 
around. 

"She's  gone  out  walkin'  with  him — they're  so 
interested  in  the  fish-hawk's  nest,"  said  Mrs.  Bats- 
ford-Wring.  "Ah,  what  is  this?  Are  they  coming 
back  already?" 

Cecelie's  face  appeared  in  the  doorway,  with 
Captain  Hawkly  towering  over  her. 

"I  just  ran  back  for  an  instant,"  she  announced 
sweetly,  "to  ask  you  to  return  in  the  car  with  us, 
Mrs.  Batsford-Wring — you  and  your  brother — 
instead  of  going  by  train.  We  can  take  them  as 
well  as  not — can't  we,  Benson?" 

Her  tone  faltered  unexpectedly  over  the  last  words 
as  she  looked  at  him.  There  was  a  slight  pause  in 
which  some  strange  tingling  electrical  disturbance 
made  itself  felt. 


BENSON'S  DAY  181 

Then  he  answered : 

"Certainly;  that's  a  fine  idea!" 

There  was  a  note  in  his  voice  she  had  never  heard 
before.  His  face  seemed  to  have  changed  to  a  cold- 
ness— a  sternness — an  indifference — so  that  he  was 
no  longer  the  same  person.  He  began  to  laugh 
suddenly. 

"You  come  and  see  the  fish-hawk's  nest  with  me, 
Chickie!"  He  waved  his  hand  to  the  others. 
"Goon!  We'll  follow." 

IV 

THE  path  down  which  they  walked  slowly  led 
over  roots,  briers,  rocks,  slippery  dead  leaves,  and  the 
tangled,  sinuous  underbrush  of  whiter,  on  which 
Mrs.  Batsford-Wring's  gown  left  little  dabs  of  fur  hi 
spite  of  all  Benson's  assiduous  efforts  in  her  behalf. 

Chickie's  colouring  did  not  seem  so  barbaric  out 
of  doors  amid  the  general  brownness  and  russet,  the 
white  gleam  of  the  frozen  inlet,  and  the  brilliance  of 
the  sun — a  crimson  ball  before  its  setting.  She  cer- 
tainly had  a  nice  way  with  one.  She  wanted  to  be 
kind;  to  please  him.  It  gave  him  a  sudden  warm 
sense  of  gratitude.;  he  veered  with  fierce  impatience 
from  any  thought  of  his  former  fond  imaginings  of 
this  day  that  was  to  have  been  his.  What  was  it 
that  Mrs.  Varley  had  said?  "Things  turn  out  so 
different  from  the  way  you  dream  them!" 

He  lingered  with  Chickie  along  the  way;  but  when 
they  finally  reached  the  objective  point  the  other  two 
were  there,  sitting  on  a  big,  jutting  stone  hi  the  midst 


182         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

of  the  dead  leaves  and  the  brown  and  beaten  sedge, 
Cecelie  with  a  downcast  face  and  the  captain  mur- 
muring in  her  ear. 

The  tree  stretched  bare  and  gaunt  far,  far  upward; 
above  swung  the  deserted  nest,  from  here  a  small 
rough  black-and-white  mass,  to  which  the  fish-hawk 
in  his  days  of  wild  and  fierce  living,  six  feet  of  him 
from  strong  wing-tip  to  wing-tip,  had  triumphantly 
brought  his  gleaming  prey.  Some  sort  of  existence 
that — to  swoop  and  strike  and  take  and  soar  again, 
one's  object  accomplished,  up,  up  into  the  wide  king- 
dom of  the  sky  and  the  safety  of  the  winds  and  the 
rocking  branches ! 

"And  what  is  that  hanging  from  the  nest?"  asked 
Mrs.  B at sford- Wring  idly. 

"It  must  be  a  feather,"  said  Benson,  bending  over 
her.  "Would  you  like  it  as  a  souvenir?" 

"Very  much — but  you  couldn't  possibly  get  it, 
dear  boy." 

"Oh,  couldn't  I!"  He  laughed  and  stood  up,  be- 
ginning to  take  off  his  coat.  "Just  watch  me." 

"Benson!     Don't,"  said  Cecelie  sharply. 

He  turned  in  surprise,  as  though  he  had  forgotten 
that  she  was  there. 

"Why  not?" 

"Mrs.  Paley  told  me  that  lots  of  boys  have  tried 
to  get  the  nest  and  couldn't.  You  can  see  where  the 
lightning  struck — those  jagged  branches  may  not 
hold  you. " 

"Oh,  the  tree's  all  right." 

"But,  Benson!    Please!"     Her  colour  flickered. 


BENSON'S  DAY  183 

"I  ask  you  not  to.  It's  idiotic;  I  hate  to  see  people 
in  high  places — it  makes  me  dizzy." 

"But  Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  wants  the  ^feather," 
he  argued  seriously.  "And  if  she  wants  it  she  must 
have  it." 

"Well,  you  are  'rather  a  dear,  aren't  you?"  said 
Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  caressingly. 

"Oh,  he's  sporty,"  agreed  the  captain.  "If  he 
fails,  I'll  bring  it  down  for  you,  Miss  Sherwood." 

"I  won't  fail!"  said  Benson. 

He  gave  a  slight  run  and  threw  himself  at  the  trunk 
of  the  tree,  his  feet  grappling  for  a  foothold;  his  wiry 
form  swarmed  up  until  he  reached  the  first  branch 
and  stood  out  on  it  erect,  his  figure  black  against  the 
crimson  light  beyond,  before  he  turned  and  swung 
himself  agilely  upward,  testing  with  eye  and  hand 
each  jagged  branch  or  stump  before  bearing  his 
weight  on  it — up  and  up  and  up,  with  a  clean,  pulse- 
filling  joy  in  the  keen  usage  of  his  powers,  until  he 
reached  the  swaying  nest  ana  triumphantly  waved 
the  feather  to  the  watching  group  below. 

He  rested  a  moment  before  attempting  the  descent, 
looking  out  over  this  brave  new  world — there  was  an 
invigorating  tang  in  the  air,  the  silver  of  the  inlet 
reflected  a  rosy  glow,  the  hoarse  caw-caw  of  a  swiftly 
flying  crow  broke  against  a  wide,  rarefied  stillness. 

"Well,  he  can  climb,  can't  he!"  said  Mrs.  Batsford- 
Wring.  "Really  he's  quite  an  extraor'n'ry  man, 
you  know,  Miss  Sherwood;  he  does  everything  so 
well.  The  tales  they  tell  of  him  out  in  Dakotah! 
My  word,  but  those  women  at  the  ranch  were  mad 


184         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

over  him !  I  thought  he'd  be  married  by  now  to  the 
little  Dalgarnie  girl;  but  it  seems  he's  nawt.  Well, 
Bennie,  you're  back  to  earth  again,  aren't  you?" 
Her  violet  eyes  welcomed  him. 

Cecelie's  face  had  flushed  unaccountably.  Was 
this  the  Benson  she  knew? 

"And  here's  your  feather,  Chickie,"  he  said,  touch- 
ing Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  gently  on  the  cheek  with  it 
before  handing  it  to  her. 

It  was  already  dusk  when  the  party  at  last  started 
on  the  way  back.  Cecelie,  looking  stealthily  at 
Benson  from  time  to  time,  felt  strangely  removed  from 
him  as  she  sat  slim  and  straight  by  Mrs.  Batsford- 
Wring,  with  the  two  men  opposite.  Something 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  him — it  was  as  if,  though 
he  was  conventionally  polite,  he  no  longer  had  any 
sense  of  her  presence.  It  gave  her  a  frightened 
feeling,  and  Cecelie  was  not  used  to  feeling  frightened. 

His  keen,  bright  eyes  met  hers  with  no  suggestion 
of  interest  in  them — his  lips  had  a  line  she  had  never 
seen  before;  he  looked  both  cold  and  hard. 

She  had  whispered,  with  sudden  compunction, 
before  they  entered  the  car: 

"I'm  sorry — I'm  sorry  we  are  not  to  have  our  Last 
Ride  together!" 

And  he  had  answered  aloud  casually: 

"  Oh,  it  makes  no  difference  at  all,  really ! "  It  was 
strange  to  look  at  her  and  feel  that  what  he  said  was 
true. 

Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  frankly  composed  herself  for 
sleep,  in  which  she  had  a  brilliant  cubist  effect. 


BENSON'S  DAY  185 

Benson  and  the  captain  kept  up  an  interested  con- 
versation on  the  sports  in  Africa  and  how  they  differed 
from  those  in  the  States,  while  the  former  kept  up  that 
double  tide  of  thought  which  was  not  exactly  thought, 
but  a  sensation  through  everything  of  being  free.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  been  wounded  so  deeply  that 
there  was  no  more  feeling  left — something  had  been 
killed  in  him.  He  might  wake  some  day  to  worse  pain 
than  ever;  but  just  now  it  was  entirely  gone. 

Cecelie  sat  with  her  golden  head  against  the  cush- 
ions, her  red  lips  slightly  parted,  her  eyes  flashing  out 
under  their  golden  lashes;  that  soft,  bright  pearlinessi 
of  hers  and  her  magnetic  charm  were  never  more 
apparent. 

Captain  Hawkly's  continually  staring  eyes  took 
note  of  her.  Benson,  for  the  first  time  in  years, 
could  gaze  and  feel  no  thrill  or  any  desire  for  her — 
the  girl  he  had  loved  so  wildly!  Why  had  he  ever 
loved  her?  Why  had  he  thought  she  would  care 
some  day — as  he  had  always  persistently,  in  spite  of 
everything,  felt  in  his  heart  she  would?  That  was 
what  had  made  him  constant,  had  given  him  hope, 
had  made  him  masterfully  take  this  last  stand.  It 
was  all  over  now — and  the  beauty  of  it  was  that  he 
did  not  care! 

It  was  a  long,  long  ride  back — that  ride  to  which  he 
had  so  looked  forward.  Cecelie  bent  over  once — 
ostensibly  to  pick  up  her  handkerchief — as  the  car 
whizzed  over  a  bridge,  the  lights  above  reflected  in 
the  black  water  that  stretched  out  beyond  on  each 
side. 


186         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that!"  she  whispered 
fiercely  between  her  little  white  teeth. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  responded  quickly  in  the 
same  low  tone.  "I  wasn't  conscious  that  I  was 
looking  at  you  at  all,  truly!" 

"I  didn't  ask  you  to  bring  me  out!"  she  said,  as 
though  in  answer  to  some  voiced  aspersion. 

"No,  no;  of  course  you  didn't,"  he  replied  at  once. 
"It  was  all  foolishness  on  my  part.  The  whole  thing 
is  done  with.  Suppose  we  just  let  the  subject  drop." 

"Very  well,"  she  assented,  trying  to  keep  back  the 
unexpected  tears. 

Mrs.  Batsford-Wring  emerged  from  her  doze. 

"How  you  do  fidget,"  she  said  amiably  to  Cecelie. 

It  was  a  long,  long  ride — perhaps  Cecelie  was 
feeling  that  she  had  lost  something,  too,  though  she 
talked  gayly  to  the  captain. 

They  were  speeding,  along  the  smooth  post  road  at 
last,  rapidly  nearing  the  town.  Now  the  lights  of  the 
city  came  into  view,  the  houses  growing  closer  and 
closer  together — more  lights,  and  noise  and  clatter. 

"And  here  we  are!"  said  Benson  as  the  limousine 
stopped  before  the  Sherwood  mansion.  He  helped 
Cecelie  up  the  steps  after  her  adieus  to  the  other 
guests,  while  the  machine  still  stood  waiting.  "I'll 
begin  to  say  good-night  to  you  now,  so  as  not  to  keep 
you  standing  here." 

She  looked  up  in  blank  surprise. 

"Why,  aren't  you  coining  in?" 

"No;  I  think  not,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"But,  Benson!     There  are  ever  so  many  things 


BENSON'S  DAY  187 

I've  been  counting  on  saying  to  you — all  the  way 
home.  I  expected  you  to  come  to  dinner,  of  course 
—I——" 

"I'm  sorry;  but  I  promised  Mrs.  Batsford- Wring 
to  go  back  with  them  to  the  Ayreslea — they've  some 
sort  of  party  on  hand  to-night.  And,  by  the  way,  I 
am  afraid  this  will  have  to  be  good-bye,  too,  for  some 
years.  It's  not  likely  that  I'll  see  you  again;  I 
leave  to-morrow." 

The  door  was  wide  open  now;  the  warmth  streamed 
out  from  the  brightly  lighted  interior  as  they  still 
stood  there,  her  lovely  face  raised  perplexedly  to 
his. 

"Not  see  me  again!  But  I  don't  understand. 
Why  do  you  talk  that  way?  Benson,  you're  not  like 
yourself — your  eyes  are  so  dark — you  look  so  proud." 

He  smiled  involuntarily. 

"Don't  let  my  looks  bother  you,"  he  responded 
gently;  adding,  with  a  deeper  note:  "I  shall  always 
thank  you  for  many  kindnesses  in  the  past — believe 
that,  Cecelie !  You'd  really  better  go  in — you'll  take 
cold  standing  here.  Good-bye!" 

He  smiled  again,  took  off  his  hat,  ran  down  the 
steps  like  one  very  glad  to  go  away,  and  disappeared 
in  the  limousine,  which  went  whirring  down  the 
street. 


THAT  was  a  fine  night!  Benson  did  not  know 
when  he  had  enjoyed  himself  so  much,  with  a 
strangely  unthinking  pleasure  that  seemed  to  have  no 


188 

connection  with  either  past  or  future,  but  to  be  just 
the  outcome  of  the  gay  moment. 

After  the  little  dinner  with  Chickie  and  the  hand- 
some captain,  augmented  by  the  presence  of  a 
sprightly  young  English  artist  and  his  pretty  wife  and 
young  sister,  the  party  had  gone  forth  to  take  in  the 
more  conventional  Bohemian  shows. 

They  had  danced  experimentally,  with  much 
laughter,  until  after  midnight,  and  supped  after  that. 
Mrs.  Batsford-Wring,  frankly  solicitous  for  the 
pleasure  of  all  the  men,  gave  her  pervading  atmos- 
phere of  comfort  to  the  evening,  with  a  special  little 
undercurrent  of  real  warmth  for  Benson  which 
touched  him  deeply. 

"You'll  not  be  wantin'  me  for  a  partner  long," 
she  warned  him  at  the  beginning  of  the  revel.  "My 
brother  says  I  dahnce  like  a  horse. " 

"Yes — and  a  spavined  one  at  that,  you  know," 
put  in  the  captain. 

"  My  word !  But  that  was  a  nasty  one,  wasn't  it?  " 
said  his  sister  agreeably. 

"Oh,  you  can't  scare  me  off  that  way!"  said  Ben- 
son. "You'll  certainly  dance  as  well  as  I  do." 

"You're  lookin'  a  lot  more  fit  than  you  were;  it's 
a  pity  I  cahn't  take  you  in  hand  oftener,  isn't  it?" 
she  murmured  once  as,  his  arms  around  her,  her  grace- 
ful lankiness  dipped  and  reared  wildly  to  the  rhythm 
of  the  music. 

Benson's  "Yes,"  gave  quick  assent;  his  hand 
pressed  hers  warmly. 

"You're  the  kindest  woman  I  ever  knew,  Chickie." 


BENSON'S  DAY  189 

"Well,  I've  had  some  rawtten  times  myself,  you 
know!"  she  answered  simply,  pressing  his  hand  in 
return. 

Though  it  was  so  late  when  he  got  to  bed  hi  the 
small  hotel  where  he  always  stopped,  he  rose  early  to 
a  day  that  from  his  high  window  was  all  a  blue  winter 
sky  and  a  gilding  sun  on  the  housetops,  and  smoke- 
wreaths  mingling  with  the  light.  He  was  shaving,  and 
whistling  during  the  process,  when  the  telephone  on  his 
stand  rang;  he  put  down  the  razor  to  answer  it. 

"Hello!— Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Clark.     Who  is  this?" 

"Benson — it's  Cecelie." 

His  face  underwent  a  hardening  change. 

"Yes— Cecelie." 

"Benson,  I — I  called  you  up  so  early  because  I  was 
afraid  you  might  go  out.  You  forgot  to  leave  me 
your  address." 

"I  really  don't  know  yet  where  I'm  going  to  be." 

"Oh!  Benson- 
He  curbed  a  rising  irritation. 

"Yes;  I'm  waiting." 

Her  voice  reached  him  sweetly: 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me  this  morning, 
Benson." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  impossible.  I  can't  get  so  far 
up  town  again  before  I  go.  I  have  business  appoint- 
ments." 

The  thought  of  going  to  that  house  again — of 
walking  up  those  brownstone  steps  as  he  had  too 
many  times  before — was  suddenly  repugnant  to  him 
beyond  words.  He  could  not  do  it. 


190        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"But,  Benson" — the  lightness  of  her  tone  had 
changed  to  one  of  appeal — "I  must  see  you  before 
you  go;  honest,  I  must!"  The  familiar  accents 
seemed  to  set  some  chord  vibrating  that  he  desired 
above  all  things  not  to  feel.  She  went  on:  "If  you 
can  meet  me  at  the  Venetia — that's  on  your  way — at 
ten  o'clock,  or  before — any  hour  you  say — I'll  only, 
keep  you  for  a  few  moments.  Benson,  please!" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Very   well,"   he   answered   at    last  reluctantly. 

Make  it  three  o'clock,  then — I'll  be  Chere  if  I  can 

on  my  way  to  the  train.     I've  got  to  ring  off  now." 

Why  had  she  called  him  up?  It  shadowed  the  day 
for  him;  it  tethered  him  still  to  all  that  bitter  past 
which  he  wanted  to  be  done  with.  He  finished  his 
shaving,  but  he  no  longer  whistled  at  it. 

It  was  long  after  the  appointed  hour  when  he 
entered  the  revolving  entrance  doors  he  had  watched 
all  that  other  memorable  afternoon  for  the  sight  of 
Cecelie.  She  was  sitting  now — as  a  quick  glance 
showed  him — almost  where  he  had  sat,  the  lobby 
and  the  corridors  filled  as  before,  her  slender  figure 
slightly  drooping  forward  over  the  big  gray  muff, 
and  her  golden  head  leaning  on  one  hand. 

Her  face,  as  she  raised  it  smilingly  to  his,  gave  him 
a  start — her  eyes  looked  very  large;  there  was  a 
strange  translucence  in  the  unusual  pallor  of  her 
cheeks,  but  she  had  still  that  drawing  quality  which 
a  person  might  curiously  observe  even  without  feel- 
ing it.  She  rose  eagerly  and  went  forward  to  greet 
him. 


BENSON'S  DAY  191 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come!  I've  been  waiting 
a  long  while." 

"Yes;  I  was  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  get  here  at 
all,"  Benson  said  formally.  "I  haven't  much  time 
now." 

"Shall  we  go  where  we  can  talk?"  she  asked  him. 

"Just  as  you  say." 

She  lilted  across  the  empty  space  of  a  big  drawing 
room,  her  head  thrown  back  as  usual,  to  a  windowed 
alcove  half  concealed  by  heavy  red  curtains  that  shut 
in  the  immense  cushioned  armchairs  in  which  they 
seated  themselves.  He  could  not  help  thinking 
cynically  that  she  seemed  to  know  the  place  very  well, 
as  he  sat  facing  her  with  that  new  look  in  his  eyes, 
one  hand  lying  on  his  knee,  waiting  for  her  to  begin, 
while  she  leaned  forward. 

"Benson,  I'm  so  sorry  about  yesterday!  I*' — 
she  went  on  with  hurried  lightness  in  spite  of  the 
slight  stiffness  that  came  over  him — "I  didn't  know 
it  was  going  to  be  like  that  to  you — honest!  I  only 
thought—  Her  agitation  grew;  she  twisted  her 

slender  hands  together.  "No!  You  must  let  me 
speak.  I  only  meant — I  thought  it  would  be  just 

something  to  laugh  over  afterward;  I — Benson " 

She  faltered ;  the  great  tears  suddenly  brimmed  in  her 
lovely  eyes,  but  she  smiled  through  them.  "I 
know  I've  been  such  a  horrid  girl !  But  last  night — 
I  found  out  what  it  was  to  care — at  last.  I  didn't 
know  it  could  hurt  so  much;  but — but — I  do  care 
for  you!  It's — it's  dreadfully  funny,  isn't  it — that 
I  do?" 


192 

He  had  put  up  his  hand  at  first  as  though  to  stop 
her,  listening  afterward  with  a  forced  patience;  but 
now  his  face  reddened  violently — a  strange  tremor 
seemed  to  shake  him.  He  looked  round  desperately 
as  one  seeking  to  escape  from  something  dread  and 
mastering.  His  eyes  searched  her  face  and  a  bitter 
smile  overspread  his. 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  you  care — as  much  as  you 
think  now,"  he  said.  "It's  very  good  of  you — but 
it  wouldn't  last,  you  know;  you'll  feel  quite  differ- 
ently to-morrow.  I'd  better  go  now,  Cecelie." 

"But,  Benson " 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  now — as  had  he — draw- 
ing farther  back  into  the  shelter  of  the  curtain,  her 
eyes  hanging  on  his.  He  stood,  irresolute.  The 
words  came  as  if  in  spite  of  himself: 

"Would  you  marry  me  now — and  go  back  with 
me?" 

She  shrank  instinctively,  with  drooping  head. 

"Oh,  Benson " 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  spreading  out  his  hands  as 
he  spoke. 

"  You  see !  That's  what  it  all  amounts  to.  There's 
no  use  of  my  staying." 

"You  don't  believe  me?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"But  you  shall!" 

She  flushed  and  paled,  looking  wildly  around  her; 
and  then,  like  one  who  suddenly  hurls  herself  from  all 
hampering  bonds,  her  arms — trembling — reached  up 
round  his  neck  and  clung  there;  her  lips — trembling 


BENSON'S  DAY  193 

too — reached  upward  for  his;  her  exquisite  magnetic 
charm  stole  through  every  sense. 

"Oh!  Oh,  you  must  believe  me  now!  .  .  . 
Never — never  for  any  man  but  you,  Benson !  I  want 
to  sit  by  your  hearth;  I  want  to  be  in  your  home — 
always;  I  want  to — to  be  your  wife — now — this 
minute — any  time  you  say ! " 

Was  that  a  sob  he  gave  as  his  strong  arms  closed 
around  her,  and  that  mighty  tide  of  love  rushed 
back  over  him? 

His  day?  Oh,  Mrs.  Varley  was  right;  better  than 
any  dreams  of  it — far,  far  better! 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY 

MR.  WILLIAM  STERLING  was  pacing  the 
floor  of  the  comfortable  brown-and-yellow 
living  room  of  the  apartment,  occasionally 
taking  a  few  unconscious  steps  to  the  music  of  a 
fox-trot  played  on  a  phonograph  below — he  was 
very  fond  of  dancing,  though  his  wife  didn't  care  for 
it — and  knocking  the  ashes  of  his  pipe  between  times 
into  strange  and  unwarranted  receptacles,  while  his 
eyes  sought  the  small  room  at  one  side  in  which  was 
visible  a  table  containing  a  draughting  board,  papers, 
measuring  implements,  and  a  lighted  lamp  with  a 
green  shade.  He  made  several  movements  toward  the 
chair  fronting  it;  drawing  back,  however,  as  if  sharply 
pulled  by  a  string.  He  was  a  slender  man  of  thirty- 
odd,  not  very  tall,  with  thick,  dark  hair  that  stood  up 
from  a  square  forehead,  a  straight  nose,  a  rather  large 
mouth,  very  brilliant,  far-apart  eyes,  and  a  tense 
expression. 

He  was  going  through  that  awful  period  which 
comes  to  all  people  of  creative  endeavour — poet,  au- 
thor, artist,  straight  through  to  the  master  mind  of 
the  business  man,  yea,  even  to  that  of  the  woman 
who  plans  the  wonderful  gown  she  is  to  make  herself 
—when  after  the  inspiration,  the  clear  vision  evolving 
out  of  space  of  a  New  Thing,  triumphantly  perfect, 

194 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  195 

the  illumination  gradually  fades,  leaving  something 
inexpressibly  hackneyed  and  futile  in  its  place. 

In  a  dull  and  anxious  season  indeed  for  a  young 
architect  with  a  wife  and  two  little  boys  to  support, 
Mr.  Sterling  had  lately  been  working  both  at  the 
office  and  at  home,  at  the  behest  of  a  heaven-sent  Mr. 
Atterbury,  long  resident  abroad,  on  the  plans  for  a 
Moorish  villa,  dreamed  of  by  Mr.  Atterbury's  wife, 
that  should  be  Moorish-American,  rather,  with  plenty 
of  windows,  bath-rooms,  and  closets,  and  steam  heat 
even  for  the  Oriental,  glassed-in  sleeping  roof.  There 
were  to  be  a  miniature  courtyard,  and  fountains 
and  pillared  spaces  and  grille-work  and  rich  colouring, 
but  there  was  to  be  a  homelike  effect  withal,  as  of 
something  indigenous  to  the  soil.  Mr.  Sterling  had 
seen  the  airy  structure  rise  before  him  with  all  diffi- 
culties triumphed  over,  incredibly  harmonious,  win- 
ning reputation  for  him  at  a  stroke.  Now,  after 
three  weeks  of  hard  labour,  the  plans  laid  on  paper 
had  become  more  and  more  imposingly  unoriginal; 
the  very  magnitude  of  his  opportunity  began  to 
be  stultifying  to  his  jaded  brain.  If  he  could 
only  "get  back  at  himself,"  and  start  anew— 
it  was  possible,  if  you  knew  how,  to  catch  on 
again. 

He  looked  up  suddenly  to  see  the  little  figure  of  his 
wife,  in  her  dainty  white  gown,  a  long  string  of  blue 
beads  around  her  neck,  coming  toward  him.  She 
was  a  pretty  young  woman  with  small  features,  a 
very  sweet  mouth,  a  great  deal  of  ruddy  hair,  and 
anxious  blue  eyes.  She  had  that  look  of  strain,  with 


196         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

an  indication  of  fine  lines  in  her  face,  making  her 
older  than  her  years  warranted,  that  is  the  mark  of 
women  who  take  more  responsibility  than  they 
should  have,  or  perhaps  than  they  need  to  take. 
She  put  her  hand  now  on  his  arm  while  she  said — as  it 
was  her  "job"  to  say: 

"Isn't  it  time  you  were  getting  down  to  work, 
Billy?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course;  but  I  can  just  tell  you  this, 
Tips — if  everyone  in  the  house  begins  piling  in  here 
as  they  did  last  night  I  might  as  well  give  up  from  the 
start.  I  can  hear  every  blessed  word  in  there.  Oh, 
heavens,  Nora's  letting  in  that  darned  bride  now! 
Her  voice  drives  me  crazy." 

"Hush,  dear!  I'll  try  to  take  her  in  the  dining 
room,"  said  his  wife  rashly.  "Why,  how  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Bird?" 

"Oh,  dear,  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  bother  you,  but 
I  just  had  to  go  to  someone,"  said  the  newcomer,  a 
very  tall,  fair  young  person  in  the  extremely  elaborate 
raiment  of  the  trousseau.  She  had  a  would-be  fetch- 
ing air  of  helplessness;  her  large  eyes  turned  from 
Tips  to  Billy,  who,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  stood 
i with  both  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  "We've 
been  in  such  a  state!  I  forgot  and  threw  a  few  coffee 
grounds  in  the  sink;  and  James  is  so  clever,  he  un- 
screwed the  trap  or  something  to  clear  it  out,  and  the 
people  below  came  up  again  to  complain.  They 
were  quite  horrid  at  being  flooded  out.  James  has 
an  awful  fit  on  now — he's  reading;  he  doesn't  seem 
to  want  to  talk  at  all,  and  you  can  imagine  how  pleas- 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  197 

ant  that  is  for  me!  So  I  came  up  to  you.  Oh,  my 
goodness,  that  isn't  Mr.  Blodger,  is  it?  Then  I'll 
just  run.  I  don't  see  now  you  stand  him." 

She  dashed  out,  almost  colliding  with  a  very 
large,  square-shouldered,  square-bearded,  negligently 
dressed  man,  with  a  dreary  expression,  who,  with 
only  a  responsive  nod  to  greetings,  walked  over  to 
the  table. 

"You  haven't  a  book  to  lend  me?  Myra's  gone  to 
a  concert.  She  tried  to  get  me  to  go,  but  I  hate 
concerts.  Thank  you,  I've  read  that.  Yes,  I've 
read  that,  too.  Yes,  I've  read  that!  I  thought  you 
might  have  something  new.  Well,  don't  bother, 
Mrs.  Sterling;  it  really  doesn't  matter.  Probably  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  read,  anyway." 

"Isn't  your  head  any  better?"  asked  Mrs.  Sterling 
sympathetically,  with  a  reproving  glance  at  her  hus- 
band, who  with  set  lips  and  lowering  brow  stood  by 
the  mantelpiece. 

A  deep  interest  showed  instantly  in  Mr.  Blodger's 
face. 

"It's  a  singular  thing,  a  very  singular  thing;  some- 
times I  seem  to  be  entirely  free  from  it — the  throb- 
bing, I  mean,  not  my  head,  of  course;  but  the  minute 
I  think  of  it,  it's  there — just  the  same  old  thing!  I 
fear  an  attack  is  coming  on  now;  if  you'll  excuse  me, 
I'll  go." 

"  Well ! "  said  Billy  Sterling.  He  wildly  confronted 
his  wife.  "  How  do  you  suppose  I  can  originate  any- 
thing in  this  atmosphere?  How?  Tips,  I've  got 
to  get  out  of  this;  I— 


198         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Sterling!"  called  a  nearing  voice  from 
the  hallway. 

A  little  girl  of  twelve  in  an  extremely  short  white 
frock,  and  an  enormous  pink  bow  on  her  long  curls, 
bounded  into  the  room.  Her  face  had  the  look,  at 
once  infantile  and  deeply  accustomed,  that  bespeaks 
the  only  child  among  grown-ups.  She  stopped  to 
make  her  bob  curtsey  before  going  on  rapidly: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Sterling,  Mother  wants  to  know  if  you 
and  Mr.  Sterling  won't  come  right  down  and  dance 
to-night?  We've  got  our  new  records.  Miss  Blend 
and  her  brother  are  there  now." 

Billy  made  an  involuntary  step  forward,  but  to  his 
eager  "Ah,  come  on,  Tips,"  she  only  shook  her  head 
decisively. 

"No.  No,  Mary,  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid 
we  can't  come  to-night.  Tell  your  mother  I  don't 
dance  the  new  dances,  but  it  was  very  kind  of  her 
to  think  of  us." 

"Oh!"  said  the  child,  without  moving.  She  re- 
garded the  two  with  sparkling  eyes,  before  starting 
in  with  a  rush:  "Mother  says  she  thinks  married 
people  are  awfully  tiresome  when  they  never  want 
to  do  the  same  things;  it  makes  it  so  inconvenient 
to  invite  'em!  Mr.  Sterling  likes  to  dance  and  you 
don't,  Mrs.  Sterling;  and  Mrs.  Walker  does  and  Mr. 
Walker  doesn't;  and  Mrs.  Vere  loves  bridge  and  Mr. 
Vere  won't  touch  a  card;  and  Cousin  John's  crazy 
over  his  boat  and  Cousin  Min  won't  put  her  foot  on 
it!  Mother  says,  honest  to  goodness,  she'd  try  and 
act  as  if  she  liked  the  same  things  Dad  did  if  it  killed 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  199 

her;  and  if  he  was  as  mean  as  Mr.  Vere,  she'd  have 
no  use  for  him!  I'm  going  now.  Good-night!" 

"Good-night,"  said  Billy,  laughing.  "Fresh  kid, 
all  right,  isn't  she,  dear?" 

He  put  up  his  hand  to  cover  the  one  his  wife  had 
tenderly  laid  on  his  arm. 

"But  why  couldn't  we  have  gone  down  there  to- 
night, Tips?  It  would  have  done  me  a  world  of  good." 

"Yes,  and  while  you  were  dancing,  I'd  have  to  sit 
out  with  that  stupid  Uncle  Joseph." 

"Why  don't  you  learn  the  new  dances,  then?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  them!  When  I  did  want  to 
dance  just  after  we  were  married,  you  didn't  want  to, 
either!  I  wish  you  wouldn't  make  me  say  all  this 
over  again,  Billy.  You  know  perfectly  well  that 
dancing  isn't  good  for  you — if  it  were  I'd  put  my  own 
feelings  aside — you  know  that;  but  it's  all  so  utterly 
silly.  You  let  yourself  be  switched  off  from  your 
work  by  the  slightest  distraction,  as  it  is.  Here  you 
have  that  plan  to  finish;  you  were  just  crazy  about  it 
at  first,  and  now —  '  She  began  to  wink  suspiciously 
though  her  voice  was  still  patient  and  gentle.  "You 
let  yourself  get  so  careless  about  everything — even 
money;  you  drop  change  everywhere!  If  you  think 
it  is  easy  for  me  to  have  to  try  to  keep  you  up  to  the 
mark  all  the  time— 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  her  husband  absently. 
From  the  first  word  the  rest  of  her  discourse  had  been 
a  foregone  conclusion.  "  I'll  get  to  work  now.  Where 
did  I  put  the  matches?" 

"Now,  Billy  dear,  don't  smoke  any  more  to-night!" 


200         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Her  eyes,  as  blue  a»  the  beads  around  her  neck,  dwelt 
on  him  imploringly.  "You  know  what  the  doctor 
said:  if  you  smoked  more  than 

"All  right!"  He  kissed  her  hastily,  dexterously 
abstracted  a  box  of  matches  from  the  mantel-shelf 
on  his  way  to  the  other  room,  and  shut  the  door. 
Whether  he  smoked  or  not  the  effect  was  the  same, 
now,  in  an  extreme  irritation  that  might  grow  at 
any  minute  into  that  silent  but  shattering  fury  that 
is  more  subversive  of  work  than  anything  in  the 
world;  this  very  effort  at  control  jarred  him  out  of 
gear  and — worse.  Oh,  heavens,  he  was  already  in 
the  throes  of  it!  He  gazed  at  the  table  before  him 
through  the  waves  of  bitterness  that  were  overwhelm- 
ing his  dulled  brain.  Tips  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
objecting  to  anything  he  wanted  on  the  score  of  its 
not  being  good  for  him;  there  was  that  second  cup 
of  coffee  at  breakfast,  the  mince  pie  the  other  night — 
with  company  present,  too!  She  was  right  about  it, 
of  course,  but  still.  .  .  . 

That  trip  to  Atlantic  City  that  he  had  set  his  heart 
on — she  wouldn't  let  him  "afford  it,"  whether  he 
could  or  not;  she  had  shut  down  on  theatre-going  for 
the  same  reason.  This  dancing  now — and  that  was 
harmless  enough! — she  was  more  set  against  than  any- 
thing else.  The  more  he  couldn't  work  the  more  in- 
flexibly she  bound  him  within  the  narrow  round.  Yet 
when  Tips  did  give  in  to  pleasure-seeking  she  did  it  so 
delightfully  and  whole-heartedly,  she  enjoyed  it  her- 
self so  much,  that  it  sharpened  the  disappointment 
when  she  refused — for  his  good!  Well,  even  take  it 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  201 

that  he  had  depended  too  much  on  her  not  letting  him 
"slump,"  there  was  reason  in  all  things.  Couldn't 
she  see?  No,  she  couldn't.  Why,  why,  why? 
.  .  .  And  every  sign  of  an  idea  gone  from  him! 
Through  the  cloud  of  smoke  he  was  puffing,  the  im- 
posing f agade  of  the  Moorish  villa  on  the  paper  before 
him  showed  as  damningly  commonplace  as  a  row 
of  two-family  houses. 

"Hello,  Sterling!  The  boy  said  I  could  come  in." 
Billy  looked  up  from  his  desk  in  the  office  the  next 
day  to  see  Mr.  Atterbury  advancing  into  the  room, 
and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Yes,  indeed!     I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you." 

"And  how  are  the  plans  coming  on?" 

"Oh,  pretty  fairly." 

"I  showed  Mrs.  Atterbury  that  sketch  of  the  lower 
floor,  but  it  wasn't  quite  her  idea,"  proceeded  Mr. 
Atterbury  thoughtfully,  seating  himself  in  the  chair 
Billy  had  placed  for  him,  where  he  could  look  over  the 
tops  of  intervening  buildings  to  the  craft  plying  up 
and  down  the  river. 

Mr.  Atterbury  was  a  tall,  spare  man  with  slightly 
grayish-black  hair  and  moustache,  a  lined,  sallow  face, 
a  humorous  mouth,  and  clear,  observant  gray  eyes;  he 
had  the  impalpable  look  and  air  of  one  who  had  lived 
much  in  the  tropics — one  instinctively  visualized  him 
in  white  linen  and  a  Panama  hat  sitting  under  a  palm 
tree;  there  was  a  curious  sense  of  power  and  virility 
about  him — as  a  man  who,  while  still  young,  had 
achieved  success  from  difficulties — that  was  subtly 
inspiring. 


202         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Of  course,"  went  on  the  visitor,  with  his  kindly, 
humorous  smile,  his  keen  eyes  bent  on  the  face  of  the 
other,  "she  doesn't  know  just  what  her  idea  is,  but 
she  says  she'll  know  it  when  she  sees  it.  Come  up 
to  the  Venetia  with  me  now  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  her  and  a  little  dance  afterward!" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  too  early  for  me  to  leave,"  said 
Billy  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  not  a  bit!    You  dance,  don't  you?" 

"After  a  fashion." 

"Come  on,  then;  it'll  do  you  good.  Besides, 
my  wife  wants  to  talk  to  you." 

"Well,  all  right,"  said  Billy,  with  sudden  alacrity; 
it  was  bad  policy  to  say  No  to  the  invitation  of  a 
wealthy  client. 

He  had  a  sense  of  exhilaration  as  he  rolled  off  in 
the  big  motor  with  Mr.  Atterbury,  pleasantly  intensi- 
fied by  the  warmth  of  Mrs.  Atterbury's  greetings  in 
the  charmingly  lighted  and  decorated  grill-room  of 
the  Venetia,  as  she  sat,  with  a  laughing,  fashionably 
appareled  group  at  one  of  the  tea-tables  that  skirted 
the  space  for  dancing.  Mrs.  Atterbury  was  beauti- 
fully dressed  in  some  thinnish  black  material,  with  a 
black,  transparent-brimmed  hat.  She  was  a  rather 
large,  soft,  dark,  pillow-like  woman,  with  a  soft, 
dimpled  face  and  large  dimple-elbowed  arms  in  their 
net  sleeves;  her  voice  was  deep  and  rich — there  was 
something  essentially  feminine  and  dependent  about 
her  that  attracted  one. 

Billy  found  himself  being  introduced  to  a  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Breeze,  the  latter  very  handsome  and 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  203 

the  former  very  homely;  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Canton, 
who  looked  singularly  alike  in  being  small,  bright- 
eyed,  and  pale;  and  a  charming,  boyish  little  Mrs. 
Gayle. 

"  This  is  the  Mr.  Sterling  who  is  making  the  lovely 
plans  for  our  new  house,"  said  Mrs.  Atterbury. 
"  I'm  so  glad  you  brought  him  with  you,  John !  Now 
you  mustn't  take  too  long  over  your  tea,  with  that 
music  going  on.  What  do  you  think?  Anna  Breeze 
has  nearly  had  a  photo-play  accepted;  she  expects 
to  hear  definitely  from  the  Bumheimer  Film  Com- 
pany to-morrow." 

"That's  fine,"  said  Mr.  Atterbury. 

"I  sent  three  scenarios  to  the  Highbrow  Perform- 
ers on  Monday,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Canton  eagerly. 
"  I  think  of  new  ones  all  the  time. " 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Canton,  the  season  being  bad 
for  the  portrait  painters'  art,  was  also  thinking  of 
throwing  off  a  "movie"  or  two  on  his  own  account. 
Mr.  Breeze,  who  "wrote,"  narrated  an  excessively 
funny  plot  for  one,  that  set  everybody  laughing,  and 
little  Mrs.  Gayle,  emboldened,  confessed  amid  sup- 
pressed cheers  to  a  real  offer  for  a  film-production 
based  on  her  last  novel;  but  Hoskyns,  who  was  her 
husband  and  tended  to  her  business  for  her,  said  it 
wasn't  large  enough  to  accept.  Mrs.  Atterbury  an- 
nounced for  her  own  husband's  benefit  that  she  had 
an  Idea  herself,  and  he  cheeringly  observed  that  a 
woman  never  got  through  surprising  you.  Even  if 
no  one  had  accomplished  anything  very  great  in  the 
moving-picture-play  line,  everyone's  brains  seemed 


204         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

to  be  alertly  stirring  in  some  way  with  inspiring  ac- 
complishment. 

If  Billy  had  hoped  for  a  dance  with  lovely  Mrs. 
Breeze — who,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  had  a 
daughter  of  sixteen,  also  writing  a  photo-play — one 
turn  with  Mrs.  Atterbury  dispelled  his  disappoint- 
ment. In  spite  of  her  size  she  was  as  light  as  thistle- 
down, with  a  rhythm  of  movement  that  seemed  to 
make  her  actually  a  part  of  the  music  and  yet  subtly 
dependent  on  him  for  guidance. 

"Well,  you  certainly  can  dance,"  he  breathed,  as 
he  propelled  her  swayingly  down  the  long  room  to 
the  strains  of  the  violins. 

"Oh,  but  you  do  it  beautifully,"  she  murmured  in 
return.  "You're  very  fond  of  dancing,  aren't  you?" 

"Very,  but  I  seldom  get  a  chance  at  it;  my  wife 
doesn't  care  for  it." 

"Oh,  that's  a  pity!  My  husband  didn't  care  for  it 
either  at  first — he  thought  it  a  waste  of  time;  but  now 
he  feels  differently;  he  says  it  freshens  him  up  won- 
derfully; the  exercise  is  so  good  for  him  and  it  changes 
the  current  of  his  thought  as  nothing  else  does." 

"It  certainly  does  that,"  said  Billy  joyously.  "Oh, 
don't  stop — not  yet!  Dance  everything  with  me!" 

"But  the  music  is  stopping  now,"  she  laughed. 
"Besides,  you  must  ask  Mrs.  Gayle  next." 

Some  more  people  joined  the  group.  The  joy  and 
lightness  of  the  music  and  the  dance  seemed  to  set  the 
blood  running  more  swiftly  in  his  veins.  Mrs.  Gayle 
was  almost  as  good  a  partner  as  Mrs.  Atterbury;  and 
Mrs.  Breeze 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  205 

The  only  thing  was  that  it  was  over  all  too  soon. 
Mr.  Atterbury,  looking  at  his  watch,  discovered  that 
they  had  to  catch  a  train  at  once  for  home;  the  party 
dissolved  suddenly  with  hurried  farewells  and  the 
parting  injunction  to  Billy  to  meet  them  there  at  the 
same  time  on  Monday.  There  had  been  no  talk  with 
Mrs.  Atterbury  over  the  plans,  after  all,  and  yet.  .  .  . 

He  was  walking  home,  with  the  lilt  and  fervour  of 
the  music  still  in  his  pulse,  entering  the  apartment 
eager  to  pour  out  the  whole  occurrence  to  Tips,  who 
came  to  meet  him,  very  pretty  in  the  little  white 
gown. 

"Well,  you  look  as  if  you  had  been  having  a  good 
time!"  she  said  as  he  kissed  her.  "What  have  you 
been  doing?" 

"I've  been  dancing  at  the  Venetia." 

"  Dancing ! "     She  stiffened. 

"Yes."  He  passed  his  hand  through  his  upstand- 
ing hair  as  he  faced  her,  his  brilliant  dark  eyes  still 
rapt.  "Mr.  Atterbury  took  me  up  there  with  him 
this  afternoon.  I  couldn't  refuse.  Mrs.  Atterbury 
was  there,  with  an  awfully  interesting  crowd,  people 
who  are  all  doing  things.  The  dancing  was  fine." 

"Oh!"  Tips  looked  at  him  with  an  expression 
which  he  dimly  perceived  beyond  some  radiant  and 
absorbing  vision  of  his  own.  He  went  on  gabbling. 

"I've  promised  to  meet  them  there  again  on  Mon- 
day. You'd  better  come,  too;  you'd  like  it." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  in  the  familiar 
attitude.  "Did  you  get  any  work  done  to-day, 
Billy?" 


206         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Well,  I  didn't  do  very  much,  but  .  .  .  There 
was  a  little  Mrs.  Gayle  there,  who " 

"I  think  I'd  rather  not  hear  about  it  now,  dear." 

Tips's  voice  was  gentle  but  firm.     "Of  course  I 
realize  that  you  couldn't  refuse  Mr.  Atterbury,  but — 
It's  just  as  I  knew  it  would  be,  dear,  if  you  gave  way 
to  this  dancing  craze  at  all — and  now,  when  most 
people  have  got  over  it,  you'll  think  of  nothing  else. 
I  can't  help  it,  of  course, — if  you  will  do  it,  but — 
You'd  better  go  in  at  once,  and  kiss  the  children 
good-night." 

"Very  well,"  said  Billy  absently,  stepping  into  the 
white-robed  room  to  perform  that  parental  duty  to 
the  two  chubby  little  boys  of  three  and  four  who,  with 
clean  rosy  cheeks,  smoothly  brushed  hair  of  Tips's  own 
ruddy  hue — Tips  used  to  be  as  rosy  and  as  gay! — 
struggled  with  bare  toes  out  of  the  tucked-in  covers 
to  climb  up  on  Daddy's  neck.  Their  enthusiasm 
seemed  delightfully  to  match  his  own.  Two  children 
were  supposed  to  be  almost  too  large  a  family  for  a 
flat;  one,  preferably  a  girl,  was  the  decent  limit.  The 
Gatches,  on  the  lower  floor,  who  had  three  under 
five  years  of  age,  were  considered  to  be  almost 
immoral. 

Billy,  with  a  fat  little  boy  on  either  shoulder, 
pranced  gaily  around  the  room  in  a  fox-trot  to  the 
accompaniment  of  shrieks  of  delight,  until  warned  by 
his  wife's  anxious  voice. 

"Billy,  I  hate  to  stop  the  fun,  but  I'm  afraid  they 
won't  get  to  sleep  for  hours." 

Even  without  encouragement  he  couldn't  help  at 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  207 

dinner  talking  over  some  of  the  incidents  of  the  after- 
noon, in  the  intervals  of  that  household  converse  sug- 
gesting a  diminishing  balance  in  the  bank.  After- 
ward he  sat  down  in  the  living  room  with  a  book  and 
a  certain  quiet  dignity  of  manner  that  seemed  to  pre- 
clude interruption.  There  are  times  when  even  a 
man  the  most  defenceless  to  domestic  attack,  gives 
that  silent  masculine  warning  that  he  is  to  be  let 
alone.  He  was  consciously  banking  down  the  fire 
within  him  until  he  was  ready  to  let  it  blaze  up.  Once 
or  twice  he  saw  his  wife's  eyes  stray  anxiously  toward 
the  other  room,  with  a  droop  of  the  lines  around  her 
mouth,  but  he  knew  too  much  to  risk  an  abortive  at- 
tempt at  expression  in  these  surroundings.  If  he 
let  himself  be  jarred  off  the  right  track  now — then 
indeed,  Good-night!  That  dance  music,  impudent, 
yearning,  barbaric — the  exhilarating  exercise — 
seemed  to  have  given  a  fillip  to  the  machinery  of  the 
brain.  The  waves  of  sound  took  form  in  lines — in 
the  graceful  lightness  of  pillars,  and  a  wonderfully 
sequent  proportion.  Proportion!  That  was  what 
his  plan  had  lacked — that  proportion  that  is  the 
mark  of  genius;  a  joy  both  to  the  eye  and  to  the 
spirit.  When  he  got  to  work  to-morrow  .  .  . 

"Poor  little  girl,  she's  had  a  stupid  evening!"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  that,  dear,"  she  replied  heroic- 
ally, as  she  turned  away.     "Only- 
He  didn't  follow  her  as  he  was  meant  to,  to  ask  for 
the  rest  of  the  sentence.     If  she  resolutely  refused  to 
let  him  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  approval  that  his  soul 


208         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

loved — and  she  was  hurting  herself,  mind  you,  just  as 
much  by  not  giving  it — why,  he  didn't  care  whether 
he  basked  or  not;  only — there  it  came  again!  Of 
course  he  did. 

The  portals  of  the  Moorish-American  villa  opened 
to  him  next  day,  and  for  it  and  for  many  days  after 
he  put  in  that  hard  and  immeasurably  painstaking 
work  which  Inspiration  makes  possible  to  those  whom 
she  singles  out;  and  he  not  only  went  up  for  the  danc- 
ing at  the  Venetia  on  Monday,  but  on  the  Friday 
also,  and  a  couple  of  times  the  next  week  and  the 
week  after.  The  second  time  he  had  suggested  Tips 
going,  to  receive  the  expected  refusal,  with  the  ad- 
ditional statement  that  she  didn't  have  anything  to 
wear,  anyway. 

He  seemed  to  get  a  peculiar  and  intimate  reinforce- 
ment from  the  meetings  with  the  "crowd";  ideas 
sprung  in  him  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of  before; 
the  paucity  of  invention  had  given  way  to  a  wealth 
of  possible  material  that  he  was  desperately  eager  to 
work  out.  He  was  modest  about  claiming  any 
genius,  but  sometimes  revelations  .  .  . 

Mr.  Atterbury  was  delighted  with  the  new  plan  of 
the  villa,  and  showed  his  delight. 

"I  don't  know  what  you've  done  to  the  thing, 
Sterling — I  can  tell  you  now  that  I  was  disappointed 
at  first,  but  you  seem  to  have  caught  just  the  idea; 
even  I,  with  my  limited  understanding,  can  see  that 
it  is  beautiful.  You'll  be  the  rage  before  you  know 
it,  and  I  tell  you  this  recreation  is  doing  you  good. 
You  look  like  a  new  man.  Agnes  was  quite  worried 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  209 

about  you  when  I  first  brought  you  up;  »he  goe« 
around  bragging  about  you  now." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  Mrs.  Atterbury. 

There  was  of  course  that  knowledge  of  the  time 
when  this  work  should  be  completed,  far  off  though 
that  might  be;  there  was  always  that  chasm  looming 
ahead  to  keep  one  from  being  too  cocksure  yet  of  any 
future. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  see  a  change  of  attitude  in 
the  whole  party  toward  him,  frankly  welcoming  him 
as  one  of  them.  Mr.  Breeze  still  waited  for  any  reply 
from  the  Bumheimer  Film  Company,  but  Mrs.  Can- 
ton had  had  such  a  nice  letter  from  the  Highbrow  Per- 
formers, in  returning  her  plays,  that  it  quite  inspired 
one  to  writing  more !  Mr.  Canton  had  been  working 
too  hard  on  a  providentially  ordered  portrait  to  do 
much  in  the  movie  line;  but  little  Mrs.  Gayle  had  had 
one  accepted  after  another,  and  was  boyishly  pleased 
and  shining-eyed. 

Nobody  could  help  liking  Billy;  he  had  a  genuine 
lightness  and  sweetness  of  disposition  that  makes 
friends.  The  dancing  was  more  and  more  of  a  joy  to 
him,  but  he  always  came  back  to  Mrs.  Atterbury  for  a 
partner;  her  perfect  dancing  gave  the  real  touch  to 
the  afternoon — she  was  so  large  and  soft,  and  sweet 
and  understanding,  she  made  a  certain  quality  of 
home. 

The  quality  of  home!  During  all  these  days  of 
accomplishment,  the  fatigue  and  satisfaction  of  it, 
that  was  what  Billy  missed. 

Tips  was  gentle,  she  was  sweet,  she  was  protective; 


210         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

but  even  when  she  was  most  loving,  she  herself,  some- 
how, wasn't  there.  He  told  her  religiously  each  time 
he  went  to  the  Venetia  and,  at  first,  as  much  of  the 
happenings  there  as  he  could  nerve  himself  to  offer  up 
in  the  face  of  her  acquiescent  non-interest.  Billy  liked 
to  talk,  to  pour  out  every  thing  to  Tips  for  her  counted  - 
on  sympathy  and  comment.  He  had  that  accustomed 
desire  to  be  approved  of,  to  be  subtly  made  to  feel  that 
he  was  the  nicest  thing  that  ever  happened.  If  Tips 
was  indifferent  it  strangely  took  something  out  of  his 
life  that  even  success  couldn't  bring  to  him.  Some- 
times he  found  her  looking  at  him  oddly  in  those  even- 
ings in  which  he  didn't  work  any  more  at  home,  when, 
with  a  feeling  that  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  say 
something — he  would  be  hanged  if  he  knew  what! — a 
mystery  seemed  to  hang  around  her.  As  far  as  he 
could  make  it  out,  she  spent  her  days,  when  not  tak- 
ing care  of  the  children,  in  incessantly  sewing — 
dressmaking.  It  annoyed  him;  he  resented,  amid  all 
the  pleasure  at  the  Venetia,  being  put,  even  tacitly, 
by  others  in  the  category  of  the  maritally  disaffected. 
Once,  at  first,  Mrs.  Atterbury  had  asked  him  to  bring 
his  wife,  and  his  short,  "Thank  you,  she  doesn't 
dance,"  had,  he  felt,  given  a  false  impression.  He  had 
refused  an  invitation  to  dine  at  the  Cantons'  and  at 
Mrs.  Gayle's. 

He  loved  his  wife;  they  had  been  the  dearest  com- 
panions— and  more,  how  much  more!  Why,  Tips — 
Tips!  It  hurt  him  now  to  see  her  suffer.  Why 
should  she  suffer?  He  was  doing  everything  in  the 
world  he  could  for  her.  Why  under  heaven  need  she 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  211 

be  so  aloof,  so  repressed,  so  indifferent,  so  steadily 
disapproving  where  there  was  nothing  to  disapprove 
of?  He  knew,  if  she  wouldn't,  what  success  was  in 
his  grasp.  There  wasn't  a  woman  there  who  could 
compare  to  him  with  his  wife.  As  for  the  dancing 
afternoons,  he  had  been  feeling  gradually  that  his  at- 
tendance on  them  hung  by  the  slightest  tenure.  Oh, 
well! 

There  are  undoubtedly  organizations  which  are 
supersensitive  to  those  well-known  shadows  of  com- 
ing events.  Billy,  joyously  entering  the  grill-room  of 
the  Venetia  with  Mr.  Atterbury,  was  conscious  sud- 
denly of  some  faint  dissatisfaction  haunting  him;  he 
couldn't  tell  with  what,  or  why.  On  analysis,  there 
was  nothing  to  cause  it.  The  work  was  going  on  all 
right;  the  little  boys  were  well;  Tips  had  shown  a  cer- 
tain softness,  a  tender  friendliness  toward  him  when 
he  left  that  morning,  laying  her  cheek  against  his  in 
a  little  fleeting  caress  in  addition  to  the  official  fare- 
well, to  which  he  was  quick  to  respond,  saying 
impulsively:  "Why  don't  you  come  with  me  this 
afternoon,  Tips?  You're  missing  something,"  and 
accepting  without  comment  her  terse  reply  that  she 
was  due  at  a  committee  meeting. 

He  had  felt  masterful,  alert,  all  day,  capable  of  con- 
trolling fate;  yet  from  the  minute  he  had  entered  the 
familiar  precincts  of  the  grill  something  unpleasant 
seemed  to  be  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  pulling  at  him 
through  all  the  delightful  swing  of  the  dance  with  Mrs 
Atterbury. 

Mrs.  Gayle  had  had  another  big  success  and  was 


SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

being  congratulated,  responding  with  the  warm 
grip  of  her  little  hand.  Mr.  Breeze  had  written  a 
small  poem  that  had  appeared  in  the  Acropolis. 
Though  no  one  ever  bought  the  Acropolis  other  than 
those  thus  interested,  it  was  nice  to  know  that  the 
poem  was  in  print.  Mrs.  Breeze,  her  beautiful  face 
upraised  to  Billy's  in  the  swing  of  the  dance  as  they 
went  back  and  forth  through  the  long  room,  had  other 
matters  to  speak  of. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Mrs.  Atterbury  has  told 
you,  Mr.  Sterling,  but  Peter  and  I  want  you  to  build 
our  modest  little  bungalow  on  the  shore.  We  think 
your  plans  for  the  Moorish  villa  are  wonderful — not 
that  we  want  anything  Moorish,  or  so  expensive,  but 
your  ideas  are  so  original,  as  well  as  beautiful.  Please 
don't  say  you'll  be  so  busy  seeing  to  the  building  of 
the  Atterburys'  house  that  you  can't  undertake  ours. 
Peter  said  I  could  speak  to  you  first." 

"Why,  I  think  I  can  undertake  it,"  said  Billy,  with 
laudable  composure;  for  a  moment  that  leaden  sensa- 
tion lifted  as  he  piloted  deftly,  past  a  table  filled  only 
with  women,  through  the  dancing  throng. 

"Mrs.  Gayle  is  talking  about  getting  you  to  build 
her  French  chateau  for  her.  She's  making  money 
hand  over  fist;  that,  of  course,  will  be  something 
really  big,  so  I  thought  we'd  better  get  our  little 
shack  in  now,"  went  on  Mrs.  Breeze. 

Billy  gasped.  Mrs.  Gayle,  too !  A  queer,  chilly  cur- 
rent seemed  to  be  going  through  him.  Atterbury 's 
words:  "You'll  be  the  rage  before  you  know  it,  Ster- 
ling," returned  to  him.  He  saw  that  chasm — ever 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  213 

terrifyingly  ahead  of  him  no  matter  what  the  security 
of  the  hour — permanently  closed  by  this  bridge  to 
Fortune.  The  excitement  of  the  prospect  would  have 
dizzied  him  but  for  the  quickly  steadying  knowledge 
that  no  matter  what  the  opportunity,  the  accomplish- 
ment would  have  to  be  his  work.  Thank  God, 
he  knew  now  that  he  had  it  in  him  to  "make  good." 

"It  is  awfully  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Breeze,"  he  said 
warmly. 

"Well,  you  know  we  all  like  you  so  much,  Mr. 
Sterling.  Peter  and  I  feel  it  is  going  to  give  us  great 
pleasure  to  have  you  associated  with  our  house,"  said 
Mrs.  Breeze.  "Tell  me,  do  you  know  that  lovely 
girl  over  there — the  one  with  the  copper-coloured 
hair,  in  black  and  white,  with  the  little  green  feather 
in  her  hat,  sitting  at  that  table  full  of  club-women? 
She's  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  you  all  the  time." 

Billy  gasped  once  more;  the  earth  seemed  to  rock. 
There  sat  Tips,  indeed.  How  long  had  she  been 
there?  But  he  only  said  quickly:  "Ah,  I'll  have  the 
pleasure  of  bringing  her  over  to  meet  you,  if  I  may. 
You  see,  that's  my  wife." 

He  went  over  to  her  at  once,  when  he  had  taken 
his  partner  to  a  seat;  and  they  stood  talking  together 
a  minute  before  she  walked  "across  the  room  with  him 
in  the  interlude  of  the  dance,  her  little  patent-leather 
shoes,  correctly  light  spatted,  showing  under  her  short 
skirt,  to  be  welcomed  by  the  group,  while  Billy  sur- 
veyed her  covertly. 

Tips  looked  extraordinarily  charming,  there  could 
be  no  question  of  that;  she  who  had  said  she  had  noth- 


214         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

ing  to  wear!  Why,  there  wasn't  a  woman  in  the 
room  more  modishly  and  becomingly  gowned;  her 
blue  eyes  sparkled,  her  replies  were  just  what  they 
should  have  been,  she  responded  delightfully  to  the 
intimacy  of  the  others — "who  knew  her  husband  so 
well."  She  beamed  nicely  upon  him.  Billy  was 

proud  of  her!  And  yet — and  yet It  was  plain 

that  the  men  all  admired  her;  the  women,  Mrs. 
Atterbury  especially,  seemed  to  like  her  as  well; 
Tips  certainly  was  making  an  impression!  Yet  as 
far  as  he  himself  was  concerned,  if  she  had  been  il- 
lusive before,  he  knew  that  she  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  world  now.  She  refused  to  dance,  on  the  score 
of  having  to  go  back  soon  to  her  party. 

"Mr.  Sterling  must  certainly  bring  you  after  this," 
said  Agnes  Atterbury  warmly.  "  We  are  all  so  proud 
to  know  him." 

"That  is  very  sweet  of  you,"  said  Tips. 

"Really,  dancing  with  him  has  spoiled  me  for 
dancing  with  any  one  else,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze.  "He 
leads  wonderfully." 

"He's  so  clever,  he  always  gives  you  new  ideas," 
chimed  in  little  Mrs.  Gayle  gratefully,  in  her  deep, 
boyish  voice.  "I  went  home  last  Friday,  after 
that  heavenly  one-step,  and  wrote  on  my  new  play 
until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Hoskyns — my 
husband — sat  by  me,  stacking  up  the  sheets  from 
the  typewriter  and  giving  me  coffee.  It's  the  best 
work  I've  done  yet." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  said  Tips  cordially,  with  her  pretty 
manner.  Her  hand  rested  lightly  on  Billy's  arm  in 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  215 

the  familiar  attitude;  he  shivered  mentally  under 
her  touch.  Mr.  Canton  was  asking,  interestedly,  if 
Tips  had  had  her  portrait  painted. 

She  went  back  to  her  party  under  Billy's  escort 
after  prettily  made  adieus. 

The  rest  of  the  hour  passed  as  in  a  dream — a  bad 
dream.  Tips  left  before  he  did,  but  she  left  her 
presence  behind  her!  He  tried  to  talk  and  laugh  as 
before;  he  seemed  to  carry  it  off  all  right.  Oddly 
enough,  Tips's  advent  had  appeared  to  add  to  his 
prestige;  everyone  voted  her  charming. 

Why  should  she  be  like  that  to  him? — why  should 
she  resent  his  being  there?  Only  Mrs.  Atterbury 
looked  at  him  with  a  new  expression,  kind  but  wonder- 
ing. He  felt  that  she  really  liked  Tips.  He  delayed 
going  home  as  long  as  he  could,  in  view  of  the  scene 
that  would  occur  when  he  got  there.  He  knew 
fatally  well  his  dancing  days  were  numbered;  that 
a  scene  there  had  to  be — knew,  while  he  rebelled  at 
it.  Why,  why  all  this  unnecessary  bother  about 
what  might  be  so  agreeable?  Why  always  take  the 
superior  air  and  call  him  to  account? 

He  tried  to  rally  his  fearful  heart  with  the  thought 
that  perhaps  there  wouldn't  be  any  scene  at  all; 
perhaps  he  had  only  imagined  her  resentment — 
perhaps  she  would  just  say,  "Hello,  Billy!"  when  he 
got  in;  "Hello,  Billy,"  cheerfully,  just  like  that. 
"I'm  glad  to  meet  your  crowd!  I'd  no  idea  they 
were  so  nice."  Wouldn't  that  be  the  joyous  thing! 
He  imagined  himself  expanding  delightfully  under 
this  glow.  But  he  knew — oh,  fatally  well — that 


216         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

she  would  say  nothing  of  the  kind.  Tips,  the  amia- 
ble and  gentle,  had  the  hard,  tenacious,  and  unyield- 
ing quality  of  the  amiable  and  gentle.  In  those 
few  times — really  few — in  which  she  had  shown  this 
streak,  he  had  felt  a  strange,  unmentionable  resent- 
ment at  being  so  judged,  and  a  lessening  of  the  bond 
between  them. 

There  were  ways  in  which  you  couldn't  stand  out 
against  a  woman — you  had  to  give  in,  no  matter  how 
you  revolted  at  the  job.  Oh,  heavens,  he  didn't  want 
to  go  in  for  this  sort  of  thing  now;  he  didn't  leant  to;  he 
couldn't  afford  to  lessen  his  working  inspiration  in  any 
such  way !  Well,  he  had  to  face  the  music,  that  was  all 
there  was  about  it.  He  would  find  her  face  down 
upon  the  bed  weeping  convulsively,  or  sitting  in  a 
chair,  rigid,  her  eyes  staring  before  her,  refusing  to 
speak — he  would  sit  down  by  her,  and  then — oh, 
then — she  would  begin  to  speak;  she  always  took  the 
higher  plane.  Well,  she  had  a  right  to;  he  would 
own  up — and  own  up  some  more — and  then  some,  as 
thej  phrase  goes;  just  so  much  would  have  to  be 
gone  through  before  life  could  flow  on  normally 
again.  The  doctor  had  said  once  that  Tips  wasn't 
very  strong,  that  she  couldn't  stand  much.  The 
thought  had  lashed  Billy  into  the  traces  more  than 
once.  Well,  if  he  had  to  knuckle  down,  he  had  to, 
that  was  all  there  was  about  it;  promise  never  to  go 
to  any  more  dances,  let  her  decide  what  was  best  for 
him  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever. 

He  put  his  key  into  the  lock  and  opened  the  door 
into  the  long,  narrow  passage  of  the  apartment.  Of 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  217 

course  Tips  didn't  come  to  meet  him,  yet  he  had  half 
hoped  that  she  would!  Everything  seemed  unusu- 
ally silent.  Yes,  Minna  was  in  the  kitchen  all  right; 
he  saw  her  as  he  passed  the  little  boys  asleep  in  their 
cribs.  There  was  a  light  in  the  bedroom  and  living 
rooms,  but  Tips  wasn't  there.  He  called  her  softly, 
but  there  was  no  answer. 

A  slight  rustling  in  the  bedroom  caught  his  at- 
tention. He  stepped  softly  in — Tips  evidently  was 
in  the  closet.  She  emerged  from  the  closet,  hurling 
some  clothes  into  an  open  trunk  which  he  now  per- 
ceived standing  on  the  floor.  As  she  emerged,  he 
looked  at  her  in  wonder.  Was  this  the  pale  and  re- 
pressed girl  of  the  last  month?  Tips  was  a  blaze 
of  colour;  her  little  figure  was  swathed  in  a  turquoise 
kimono  half  dragged  from  a  small  milk-white  shoul- 
der, her  ruddy  hair  was  tumbled  down,  her  cheeks 
flamed  scarlet,  her  white  teeth  gleamed  between 
parted  red  lips,  her  eyes — no  tears  there! — radiated 
blue  fire;  her  small  fist  clenched  involuntarily  as  he 
came  toward  her,  her  breast  heaved.  Never  since 
the  first  days  of  their  marriage  had  she  looked  so  little 
and  childish  and  beautiful. 

"  Hel-lo ! "  he  said  gently.     "  What  have  we  here?  " 

She  gave  him  a  wild  glance  as  he  put  his  arms 
around  her,  looking  from  side  to  side,  as  if  for  escape. 
She  spoke  pantingly: 

"I'm  going  away  from  you — now,  to-night!  I'll 
never  live  with  you  again!  I'll  take  the  boys  with 
me,  and — go — home — to  Father. " 

"But  why  on  earth " 


218         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I — that  girl  you  were  dancing  with — you  never 
told  me  of  her.  I  hated  her  so!  I  felt  so  strange." 
She  struggled  suddenly  like  a  wild  thing  to  free  her- 
self from  his  grasp,  beating  him  franticallv  with  her 
two  small  fists.  "Let  me  be!" 

"Hello!"  said  Billy  again,  in  masculine  amaze, 
with  a  sudden  silent  thrill  of  laughter.  "My,  my, 
my !  What  a  little  spitfire  we  are  getting  to  be !  No, 
I'm  not  going  to  let  your  hands  go — you're  too  dan- 
gerous; you  might  injure  me  for  life,  and  then  how 
would  you  feel?  Listen,  there  isn't  any  girl  in  the 
case!  Do  you  hear  me?  That's  Mrs.  Breeze. 
She's  as  crazy  over  her  own  husband  as  you  are  over 
me.  Be  still  now!  She's  got  a  daughter  nearly 
seventeen — take  that  in.  She  can't  come  a  candle 
for  looks  to  a  little  thing  I  know — mother  of  two 
boys  of  mine.  What?  Speak  a  little  louder,  dear, 
I  can't  hear  you!" 

"You,"  she  panted  with  the  words  fiercely — "you 
never  asked  me  to  come  with  you  to — the  dances " 

"Never  asked  you!     Come,  I  like  that.     I " 

"Yes,  you  said,  'Don't  you  want  to  come  along, 
Tips?  You're  missing  something.'  Just  like  that 
you  said  it;  and  I've  been  sewing  and  planning  and 
sewing,  making  over  that  suit  so  that  I  could  have 
something — and — I  saved  my  hat  out  of  the — the — 
butter  and  eggs,  so  that  I  could  look  decent  to  go  and 
dance  with  you;  and  all — you  said  was,  'Don't  you 
want  to  come  along — Tips?'  When  I  longed  to  be 
with  you  so,  when  I  was  just  waiting  and  waiting 
for  you  to  say  you  wanted  me!  I'm  sick  and  tired 


DANCE-MAD  BILLY  219 

of  being  a  make-weight.    I  want — I  want — I  want — 
her  voice  rose  uncontrollably — "to  en — joy  myself, 
too!" 

"And  so  you  shall,"  said  Billy  tenderly.  "Why, 
I've  been  missing  you  all  the  time,  dearest,  more  than 
I  could  tell  you."  This  was  not  the  judge  he  had 
dreaded,  but  a  poor  little  wild,  hurt  thing,  quivering 
under  his  hand,  yet  flying  to  him  for  succour.  He  sat 
down  on  a  chair  behind  him,  drawing  her  on  his  knee; 
her  arms  flung  suddenly  around  his  neck.  This  was 
the  time  for  all  the  little  words  that  only  lovers 
know.  .  .  . 

'.  "And  do  you  take  it  in,"  he  announced  after  a 
while,  "that  we're  going  to  be  rich  and  great?  You 
won't  have  to  economize  much  longer.  Atterbury 
gives  me  a  cheque  to-morrow  and  I'm  to  build  for 
Mrs.  Gayle,  and  for  that  poor  Mrs.  Breeze  you  were 
so  furious  at,  you  bad  child." 

"And  you've  done  it  all  without  me?" 

"No,  no,  not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  averred  anxiously. 
"Now,  smile — aren't  you  going  to  smile  ever  again? 
Never  mind  if  there  isn't  anything  to  laugh  at;  smile 
at  me!  I'm  the  joke!  There,  that's  better."  He 
stood  up,  still  with  his  arms  around  her. 

From  the  floor  below  the  music  of  a  phonograph 
fox-trot  came  wafted  up  the  shaft.  Unconsciously 
they  stepped  lightly  off  to  it,  together,  between  the 
bed  and  trunk  and  the  dressing  table. 

"Why,  you  dance  like  a  bird,  Tips!"  he  said  joy- 
ously. "Let's  go  out  to-night  and  have  a  lark!" 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK 

IT  WAS  February,  the  before-dawn  of  the  year, 
when  vitality  is  at  its  lowest  and  the  problems  of 
existence  seem  as  if  they  could  never  be  solved; 
when  even  in  the  most  loving  households  there  are 
sagging  times  when  there  seems  no  real  uplift  obtain- 
able, and  that  Heaven-sent,  saving  angel,  a  sense  of 
humour,  sits  humped  together  on  the  doorstep  with 
folded  wings,  unable  to  enter. 

To-night,  like  the  reverberation  of  a  wheel  after 
the  impetus  has  been  removed,  the  stress  and  habit 
of  the  long  business  day  still  clung  to  Joseph  Lang- 
shaw  in  a  certain  tenseness  of  manner.  He  hardly 
spoke  at  the  table  to  little  glowing  dark-eyed  Mary, 
except  to  reprove  her,  though  gently,  for  spilling  the 
usual  glass  of  water,  and  to  enjoin  the  chubby 
George — not  so  gently — to  use  his  handkerchief. 
He  listened  with  evident  effort  to  the  history  of  the 
day  as  told  him,  with  a  languid  attempt  at  her  usual 
vivacity,  by  his  wife,  who  nervously  took  note  of 
him,  the  colour  coming  momentarily  into  the  too-pale 
cheeks.  Once  or  twice  he  shifted  his  eyes  toward  her 
without  any  answering  gleam  in  them,  and  shifted 
them  quickly  away  again. 

The  dinner,  at  which  the  cheap  and  unexciting 
carrot  flanked  a  pallid  stew,  and  the  dessert  was  some- 

220 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  221 

thing  thin  which  ought  to  have  been  thick,  failed  to 
bring  him  back  in  spirit.  Afterward  he  strolled  off 
by  himself.  Clytie  could  hear  him  aimlessly  walking 
around  up  above,  opening  and  shutting  bureau  draw- 
ers, and  pulling  shades  testingly  up  and  down  on  their 
spring  rollers.  Once  he  called  down,  questioning  her 
as  to  the  whereabouts  of  a  caster  that  nobody  had 
seen  since  summer  before  last.  When  the  interlude 
of  kissing  the  children  good-night  in  their  tucked-in 
beds  was  over  he  came  downstairs  to  the  little  library 
once  more,  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  lamp,  and 
taking  up  a  book  of  George's  that  had  once  been  his 
own,  became  apparently  deeply  immersed  in  it.  His 
wife  had  been  sitting  by  him  for  some  time,  her  work 
dropped  in  her  lap,  her  slight  figure  drooping,  and 
her  small,  dark-curled  head  resting  languidly  in  her 
too-thin  arm,  before  he  seemed  to  notice  her,  and 
closing  the  dilapidated  red  covers  of  the  "Cornet  of 
Horse,"  laid  it  resolutely  on  the  table  beside  him. 

"How  have  you  felt  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  pretty  well.  I'm  just  a  little  tired  now,  that's 
all.  Of  course  after  diphtheria —  And  the  children 
had  to  have  so  many  things  done  for  them,  I  didn't 
get  much  chance  to  rest  this  afternoon,  though  I 
meant  to." 

"Been  sweeping  any?" 

"No.  Oh,  well,  I  just  gave  a  touch  to  the  nursery. 
The  house  gets  in  such  a  perfect  state  and  Minna  was 
so  long  in  coming  upstairs — but  that  was  nothing." 
Her  tone  changed.  "That  dinner  was  so  dreadful 
to-night  you  couldn't  eat  a  thing.  I'll  see  about  it 


222         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

myself  to-morrow.  I've  been  so  bothered,  everything 
costs  so  much,  and  I  don't  like  to  ask  you  for  any 
more  money  when  I  know  we're  running  behind." 
Cly tie's  eyelashes  began  to  wink;  her  red  lip  trembled. 
"You  see  I  haven't  been  able  to  go  out  and  buy  things 
myself  as  I  used  to,  and 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like  that  bother 
me,"  said  her  husband  carelessly,  rising  and  humming 
a  tune  as  he  walked  over  to  the  mantelpiece,  taking 
up  a  vase  that  had  stood  there  for  only  thirteen  years 
and  examining  it  critically.  He  hummed  very  badly, 
and,  as  Clytie  knew,  only  when  he  was  perturbed. 
She  watched  him  now  until  he  came  over  to  her. 

"See  here,  Clytie,"  he  said  abruptly,  "this  sort  of 
thing  has  got  to  be  stopped.  Everyone  has  been  tell- 
ing me  how  badly  you're  looking  and  that  you  ought 
to  have  a  change.  Even  that  old  goat  Rutter — 
Rutter! — was  speaking  of  it  coming  out  on  the  train 
to-night;  said  his  wife  thought  perhaps  I  didn't 
notice  it — the — f ool !  Of  course  I  told  him  you  were 
never  better  in  your  life.  Thank  Heaven,  I  can  man- 
age my  own  family  affairs  without  the  help  of  the 
neighbourhood!"  His  voice  grew  stormier.  "But 
this  sort  of  thing  has  got  to  be  stopped,  that's  all 
there  is  about  it.  You  wear  yourself  out  for  the  house 
and  the  children.  Let  the  children  wait  on  them- 
selves! Let  the  house  go!  Here  I  come  home  my- 
self after  a  hard  day's  work  and  find  that  you've 
been  sweeping,  after  what  Doctor  Coulter  told  you! 
You're  not  to  touch  a  broom,  do  you  hear?  And  as 
for  the  meals,  you  know  perfectly  well  I  don't  care 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  223 

what  I  eat.  Let  Minna  attend  to  them;  that's  what 
she's  paid  for.  I  tell  you,  if  I  once  get  after  her  she'll 
learn  to  cook  in  short  order."  He  paused  before 
giving  vent  to  the  man's  shibboleth:  "If  I  were  to 
run  my  business  like  this  I— 

"Hark,  there's  Baby!"  exclaimed  Clytie  anxiously, 
starting  up. 

"Sit  down.  I'll  go  up  to  her,"  said  the  husband 
resignedly.  "She's  got  to  quit  this  habit  of  waking 
every  evening." 

He  tramped  firmly  up  the  stairs,  but  presently 
came  down  again  with  the  three-year-old  child,  a 
plump,  blanketed  bundle,  in  his  arms,  her  yellow  hair 
straggling  against  his  coat  sleeve  and  her  round,  blue 
eyes  regally  content. 

"Her  feet  were  cold,"  he  announced  in  excuse,  dis- 
playing those  members  to  the  doubtful  warmth  of 
the  smouldering  logs  on  the  hearth.  There  was  some- 
thing in  that  round  little  form  that  still  held  a  glint 
of  Heaven  in  it  to  the  father's  heart.  Unnecessary 
as  it  was  for  Baby  to  hold  up  an  evening  in  this  way, 
the  touch  of  her  mysteriously  lightened  care. 

"  When  does  Mr.  Wilkinson  go  back  to  California?  " 
asked  Clytie  suddenly,  after  a  few  moments  of  a 
peaceful  silence. 

"Next  week." 

"And  how  are  the  business  plans  coming  out  with 
that  Mr.  Henkel  he  introduced  you  to?" 

"Oh,  the  plans  are  all  right," said  Langshaw  grimly. 
"I  am  the  one  that's  hanging  fire.  I  was  to  have 
charge  of  the  office  end  of  it,  but  you  see  I  can't 


224         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

furnish  the  man  Henkel  wants  for  the  other  part  of 
the  job.  It  must  be  someone  who  can  put  in  a  little 
capital — they're  letting  me  in  without  any — some- 
one who  has  a  technical  knowledge  of  the  machine, 
and  is  thoroughly  familiar  with  the  ground  to  be 
worked  over.  Sounds  simple,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if 
it  is!" 

"How  about  Mr.  Ballard?" 

"He  can't  raise  the  money." 

"Mr.  Francis?" 

"He  drinks.  I've  been  searching  my  brain  night 
and  day.  I've  written  letters  to  a  few  people,  but 
they  won't  do  any  good.  I  can't  take  the  time  to 
look  around.  Henkel  has  been  mighty  nice  about  it — 
he  doesn't  know  anybody  here  himself — but  he  can't 
wait  for  me  much  longer.  He  sails  for  Europe  on 
the  fifteenth,  and  he's  got  to  get  things  settled  before 
he  goes;  he's  only  giving  me  this  chance  because  he's 
under  obligation  to  Wilkinson.  Dear  old  man!  I 
fancy  everybody's  under  some  obligation  to  him. 
Green,  from  Philadelphia,  will  come  on  and  take 
charge  of  things  if  I  can't." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  possible  for  you  to  go  in  with 
him?" 

Langshaw  shook  his  head.  "No,  he  has  his  own 
people." 

"How  much  salary  did  they  offer  you?"  asked 
Clytie  timidly.  "You  didn't  teU  me." 

"Five  thousand." 

There  was  an  awed  pause.  Perhaps  at  no  possible 
height  of  future  prosperity  could  any  sum  look  so 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  225 

large  to  the  two  concerned  as  that  five  thousand 
dollars. 

The  next  moment  Langshaw's  tone  changed  to  one 
of  intense  irritation  as  he  bent  over  to  prod  the  smok- 
ing logs:  "Why  under  Heaven  can  we  never  get 
wood  that  burns?  Don't  order  any  more  from  Boggs. 
What  on  earth  are  you  crying  for?" 

"I've  tried  so  hard  to  get  the  right  kind  of  wood. 
I  s-s-sent  word  to  Boggs  twice  about  it — he  sends 
that  horrid  cross-eyed  man  to  take  the  order.  And 
I  know  you  have  too  much  on  your  mind!  I 
know  it  all  the  time,  and  I  only  want  to  help  you 
and  I  can't  seem  to!  You  have  to  work  so  hard  in 
the  office  for — for — that  horrid  firm,  and  George 
ought  to  be  taken  to  the  dentist,  and  you  need  a 
pair  of  new  shoes  yourself  this  minute,  and  I — I  love 
you — I  love  you  s-s-so  much 

Langshaw  controlled  himself  with  an  effort  so 
great  that  it  jarred  him  all  over.  The  angel  of  the  sense 
of  humour  ascended  to  the  roof  and  perched  there  in 
a  dejected  heap.  "If  you  keep  on  like  this  you'll 
make  yourself  ill,  Clytie,"  he  said  firmly,  though  he 
didn't  deny  her  the  comfort  of  his  dear  hand  as  she 
sobbed  on  his  shoulder  over  the  bundled  form  of 
Baby,  whose  eyes  in  the  midst  of  turmoil  had  closed. 
"What  you  need  is  a  change — and  money  or  rest; 
and  in  some  way  or  another,  by  George,  you've  got 

to  have  it!" 

II 

MRS.  LANGSHAW  had  been  away  only  a  couple 
of  times  from  her  family  in  years  gone  by,  short 


226         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

absences  demanded  by  the  illness  of  others,  from 
which  she  had  returned  with  all  the  swiftness  of  a 
homing  bird.  On  various  occasions  since,  the  need 
of  change  had  been  urged  for  her,  with  always  the 
same  result — there  was  nowhere  to  go.  Most  of  their 
intimate  friends  were  in  the  place;  relatives  were 
inadequately  situated  as  regards  visitors;  there  was 
no  money  for  resorts. 

But  when  Langshaw  came  home  the  next  night, 
somewhat  earlier  than  usual,  his  brooding,  tired, 
harassed  eyes  had  a  tender,  superficial  gleam  in  them; 
a  smile  curved  the  worn  lines  around  his  mouth  as  he 
announced : 

"What  do  you  think,  children?  Little  Mother's 
got  an  invitation  to  go  out  to  Los  Angeles!" 

"Where  is  Los  Angeles?"  asked  Mary,  climbing 
up  on  his  knee,  while  the  sturdy  George,  one  rubber 
boot  drawn  off  to  expose  a  sodden  stocking,  paused 
arrested  on  the  hearthrug. 

"It's  out  in  California,  three  thousand  miles  away; 
think  of  that!"  answered  the  father.  He  went  on 
quickly : 

"It's  all  Wilkinson's  doing,  Clytie;  dear  old  man! 
I  was  talking  to  him  this  morning  about  you,  and  the 
first  thing  I  knew  he  was  offering  to  take  you  out  with 
him  next  week  on  his  pass.  He  says  it  won't  cost  you 
a  cent.  He  said  his  wife  would  be  overjoyed  to  see 
any  one  from  home,  and  the  climate  will  fix  you  up 
as  nothing  else  would.  He  just  sat  down  and  told 
me  of  some  of  the  hard  times  he  and  his  wife  went 
through  when  they  were  young.  Once  she  was  sick, 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  227 

and  he  took  her  forty  miles  on  muleback  through  the 
mountains.  That  cured  her  up.  I  tell  you  he's  one 
of  the  finest  old  fellows  you  could  find." 

"But  I  don't  know  Mrs.  Wilkinson,"  objected 
Clytie,  in  dismay,  her  colour  coming  and  going 
ominously. 

Langshaw  waved  his  hand:  "That's  all  settled. 
Wilkinson  said  himself  that  of  course  a  woman  would 
want  an  invitation  from  another  woman,  and  he 
telegraphed  details  to  his  wife  while  I  was  there,  for 
fear  he  might  forget  it  later,  he's  so  absent-minded. 
You'll  get  a  night  letter  from  her  to-morrow  morning. 
They  live  in  a  sort  of  palace,  I  judge,  in  Los  Angeles, 
and  they've  any  number  of  motors.  He  says  his 
wife  loves  to  have  young  people  around  her.  Just 
the  thing  to  do  you  worlds  of  good !  Just  imagine — 
you'll  see  the  Rockies  and  the  Grand  Canyon! 
Wilkinson  will  be  coming  back  in  six  weeks  and  he'll 
bring  you  with  him  then." 

"Six  weeks!"  Clytie  gasped.  Her  dark  eyes  grew 
larger;  her  small  figure  vibrated.  "Joe  Langshaw! 
I  couldn't  stay  away  for  six  weeks  without  you  and 
the  children — I  couldn't!  There's  no  use  telling  me 
to,  I  won't;  I—  She  stopped  weakly,  under 

the  force  of  his  gaze,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"See  here,  Clytie,  who's  doing  this?"  said  her  hus- 
band masterfully.  "You're  going.  I'm  running 
this  household  now,  and  you're  going  to  get  well  if 
I  know  it,  dear.  There,  you  cry  for  everything— 
that  shows  what  a  condition  you're  in.  Will  it  do 
the  children  or  me  any  good  to  have  you  stay  home 


228         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

and  die?  Answer  me  that!  Well,  I  should  think 
not.  You're  going  to  come  back  so  well  and  young 
and  beautiful  that  I'll  fall  in  love  with  you  all  over 
again.  George,  use  your  handkerchief  or  leave  the 
room." 

"You  need  a  change  more  than  I  do,"  flashed 
Clytie,  but  perhaps  his  last  words  touched  a  faintly 
vibrating  chord.  In  all  brave  and  healthful  natures 
there  is  a  natural  ardour  of  travel.  Anticipation 
of  the  unusual  waved,  even  if  but  for  the  moment, 
its  wizard  wand.  The  Rockies  loomed  largely  in 
the  conversation  at  dinner,  while  George  and  Mary 
clamoured  loudly  to  go,  too.  Clytie's  eyes  followed 
her  husband  as  if  light  dwelt  in  his  presence.  She 
couldn't  have  told  that  the  idea  of  being  sent  away 
from  him  made  her  feel  foolishly  frightened,  like  a 
child  being  pushed  off  into  the  dark.  But  of  course 
you  would  forget  all  that  when  you  saw  the  Rockies. 

That  evening  when  they  were  alone  they  talked  out 
everything  exhaustively.  Langshaw's  mother  would 
come  and  stay  with  the  children,  whom  she  adored. 
Langshaw  loved  to  boss  his  mother,  and  she  loved 
to  be  bossed  by  him.  He  wrote  the  letter  at  once 
and  ran  out  and  posted  it. 

As  for  a  week  being  a  short  time  in  which  to  make 
one's  preparations  for  a  trip  to  California,  a  person 
could  get  ready  for  an  absence  of  years  in  a  day. 
For  himself  a  half  hour  would  suffice.  Was  money 
needed  for  the  replenishment  of  her  wardrobe,  even 
though  she  at  least  had  her  best  gown  and  a  walking 
suit?  Money  would  be  forthcoming  for  what  was 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  229 

necessary.  If  she  couldn't  go  to  town  he  would 
purchase  for  her. 

They  pored  over  timetables,  looking  up  not  only 
the  train  on  which  she  would  go  but  the  one  on  which 
she  would  return,  settling  that  Langshaw  would  leave 
the  office  to  come  up  and  meet  her.  In  the  midst  of 
all  this  earnest  consultation  there  were  intermediate 
moments  in  which  little  Mary  twice  woke  up  for  a 
drink  of  water,  and  Baby  had  to  be  covered,  the 
furnace  raked  down,  and  the  sturdy  George,  coughing 
croupily,  given  cough  medicine,  the  first  dose  of  which 
administered  by  Clytie's  shaking  hand  delayingly, 
went  outside  his  throat  instead  of  in  it,  and  neces- 
sitated the  protested  ignominy  of  a  large  bath  towel 
stuffed  inside  his  nightgear.  Yet  still  the  two  talked 
on,  engrossed,  as  they  made  ready  for  the  night;  only 
really  coming  back  to  the  present  just  as  they  were 
ready,  at  a  quarter  of  twelve,  to  turn  out  the  light, 
by  discovering  that  Minna,  due  in  the  house  by  half- 
past  ten,  hadn't  come  in  yet.  That  furious,  nerve- 
racking  anger  consequent  on  sitting  up  for  a  delin- 
quent maid  took  possession  of  the  spirit. 

"By  George,  if  she  does  this  while  you're  away  I'll 
send  her  kiting;  that's  all  there  is  about  it!"  breathed 
Langshaw  between  his  teeth. 

"But,  Joe,  you  couldn't,  with  the  children  and 
everything." 

"I  wouldn't  let  a  little  thing  like  that  faze  me," 
said  Langshaw  grandly.  He  was  at  the  moment  the 
embodiment  of  man,  the  dominant  power,  before 
whose  gleaming  axe  strong  forests  crash  down  upon 


230        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

the  sward.  Minna's  step  was  heard  on  the  porch 
below. 

"How  did  that  business  with  Mr.  Henkel  get  on 
to-day?"  asked  Clytie  in  a  small  voice,  the  last  thing. 

"All  right!"  answered  her  husband,  in  a  final  tone 
of  such  emphasis  that  any  but  a  very  stupid  woman 
— and  little,  loving  Clytie  was  never  that — couldn't 
help  knowing  that  it  was  all  wrong,  and  she  mustn't 
ask  any  more  questions. 

Langshaw  felt  that  if  he  could  only  hold  things 
together  with  Henkel  until  his  wife  got  safely  off, 
he  could  force  all  the  powers  of  his  freed  mind  to  a 
satisfactory  settlement  of  the  situation  in  the  days 
remaining  to  him,  before  the  Philadelphia  people 
would  be  called  in.  When  Clytie  got  off  he  could 
see  to  everything. 

I 

III 

THE  next  week  was,  to  the  reminiscent  mind,  a 
crowded  period  of  deadly  earnestness  and  heroic 
strivings  to  accomplish  the  simplest,  the  most  inane 
things.  Clytie  herself  visibly  wilted  under  the  strain. 
'Every  time  Langshaw  looked  at  her,  her  unnaturally 
large  eyes  and  translucent  pallor  goaded  him  to  fresh 
effort  hi  her  behalf. 

The  first  hitch  came  in  a  letter  from  his  mother, 
tearfully  announcing  that  she  felt  that  she  ought  not 
to  leave  his  sister  Ella,  who  was  in  one  of  her  nervous 
states  at  present;  though  her  dearest  boy  knew  how 
much,  how  very  much,  she  longed  to  be  with  him  and 
the  darling  children.  Had  Clytie  tried  eating  apples? 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  231 

They  were  said  to  be  very  strengthening.  Langshaw 
dropped  the  letter  before  he  got  to  the  end. 

"Poor  Mother!"  he  said,  with  a  little  grimace; 
"she  always  thinks  that  if  she  really  wants  to  do  a 
thing  it  must  be  wrong." 

"Oh,  she  always  sacrifices  you  to  that  selfish  Ella," 
said  Clytie,  with  sudden  fierceness.  After  all  Joe  had 
done  for  his  mother!  "Well,  of  course  I  won't  go 
now." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  said  Langshaw  firmly. 

Cousin  Helen,  who  had  been  a  trained  nurse  and 
had  made  their  house  her  headquarters  whenever  she 
came  to  town,  was  confidently  called  upon.  In  her 
keeping  the  children's  health  would  be  safeguarded. 
But  Cousin  Helen  also  Biblically  prayed  to  be  ex- 
cused. She  would  love  so  much  to  help  them  out, 
but  she  was  to  receive  at  a  tea  on  the  following  Mon- 
day, and  the  week  after  that  she  had  engaged  the 
dressmaker  by  the  day.  If  Clytie  could  wait  until 
March 

That  letter  went  in  the  waste  basket. 

"Well,  as  far  as  I  can  see  there's  nothing  but  to  get 
Mrs.  Mulger,"  said  Langshaw  grimly. 

"Oh,  Joe  dearest!  But  you  never  could  stand  her 
for  six  weeks!  Of  course  the  children  adore  Mulgy, 
and  it  would  help  her  out,  but —  Joe,  please  let 
me  stay  home!  You  would  be  perfectly  miserable 
with  Mrs.  Mulger.  If  you  knew  how  I  didn't  want 
to  go — Joe,  please!" 

"If  you  cry  you'll  make  yourself  ill;"  he  repeated 
the  monotonous  warning.  "  Mrs.  Mulger  isn't  going 


232         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

to  make  any  difference  to  me,  I  can  tell  you 
that." 

Yet  even  he  couldn't  help  wincing  in  secret  at  the 
prospect.  Mrs.  Mulger  was  a  remarkably  homely 
women  in  reduced  circumstances — of  elephantine 
proportions  and  a  fawnlike  timidity  in  the  presence 
of  man.  She  jumped  when  Langshaw  spoke  to  her 
at  the  table;  she  scuttled  out  of  his  way  impedingly 
when  she  met  him  on  the  stairs;  she  required  with 
every  breath  the  assurance  that  she  wasn't  annoying 
him.  She  engendered  in  Langshaw  unsuspected 
sympathies  with  Nero. 

But  it  proved  that  Mrs.  Mulger  could  come. 

Mr.  Wilkinson,  white-bearded,  with  his  kind  blue 
eyes  and  comforting  air  of  all's  well,  dined  with  them 
one  hurried  evening;  but  apart  from  that  the  days 
were  filled  with  that  incredible  sense  of  rush  and  seri- 
ousness of  preparation,  and  with  increasing  small, 
wrenching  expenditures. 

Langshaw  himself,  taking  precious  time,  shopped 
with  his  wife's  illegible  pencilled  lists,  earnestly  pur- 
chasing from  white-goods  counters — usually  outside 
the  masculine  province — with  the  expert  help  of 
salesladies,  who  were  comfortingly  sure  his  wife 
would  like  the  articles;  he  had  a  dim  impression 
that  she  didn't  like  those  violently  ribboned  things. 
He  bought  stockings  for  her  little  feet — dear, 
dearest  little  feet,  that  used  to  dance  so  lightly! 
Once  he  suddenly  choked  at  the  thought  of  them. 
He  bought  her  a  blue  felt  hat  with  a  red  bow;  he 
matched  samples;  but  on  one  point  he  stood  firm — 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  233 

he  couldn't  be  brought  to  changing  things.  He 
haled  the  unwilling  George  and  Mary  to  the  dentist, 
at  Clytie's  anguished  behest,  on  his  precious  Saturday 
afternoon;  he  listened  morning  and  evening  to  in- 
creasing details  as  to  what  was  to  be  put  in  the  wash 
during  her  absence,  and  how  many  silver  spoons 
there  were  to  count,  and  what  the  children  ought  not 
to  eat,  and  what  was  to  be  done  under  those  hypo- 
thetical conditions  that  never  happen.  Every  night 
when  he  came  home — he  had  taken  to  walking  with 
a  slow,  padding,  panther-like  step,  as  one  who  treads 
a  jungle — he  found  the  house  full  of  loudly  departing 
women,  who  had  been  helping  Clytie  with  her  ward- 
robe, and  had  each  a  moment  of  lowered,  confidential 
speech  with  him  to  say  how  badly  Clytie  was  looking 
and  that  he  was  getting  her  off  just  in  time. 

The  children  were  underfoot  everywhere.  He  had 
only  one  safety  valve,  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  a 
contractor  who  had  mistakenly  dumped  a  barrow- 
load  of  manure  on  his  front  walk.  That  letter  was  a 
masterpiece  of  stinging  satire,  of  Jove-like  invective, 
and  of  delicately  insulting  epigram.  It  was  never 
sent,  because  he  found  on  rising  the  next  morning 
that  the  manure  had  been  removed,  but  it  had  al- 
ready filled  its  appointed  place  in  the  scheme  of  the 
universe.  Langshaw  had  relieved  his  soul. 

The  day  came  at  last,  yet  with  a  paralyzing  reality, 
when  Clytie  stood  with  little  Mary  clinging  to  her,  in 
the  open  doorway  of  her  house,  ready  for  departure, 
the  blue  hat  with  the  scarlet  ribbon  crowning  the 
dark  tendrils  of  her  lovely  hah".  Though  it  was 


234         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

seven  o'clock  it  was  still  light.  She  was  to  be  spared 
the  fatigue  of  the  journey  to  town  and  through  it  to 
the  big  station.  Kind  Mr.  Wilkinson  had  sent  an 
automobile  for  her;  her  small  trunk  and  her  bag  were 
already  in  it.  Langshaw  stood  ready  to  help  her 
in  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Mulger  should  appear  to  take 
charge;  the  straw-coloured  Minna  hovered  smilingly 
in  the  background;  neighbours  on  either  side  stood 
on  their  porches  to  wave  her  off  cheerily.  And  at 
this  ultimate  moment  there  was  an  irritating  failure 
to  connect  with  the  perfectly  planned. 

Mrs.  Mulger  sent  word  by  a  small  boy  that  a  visitor 
had  arrived,  and  she  hoped  it  wouldn't  make  any 
difference  if  she  came  the  next  morning  instead  of 
to-night. 

"Not  make  any  difference!  Why,  that's  what  we 
wanted — to  have  her  here  now,"  wailed  Clytie, 
tearing  up  the  letter  wrathfully.  "You  ask  people 
for  your  time  and  they  come  at  theirs!  I  can't  go 
if  Mrs.  Mulger  isn't  here!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  said  Langshaw,  with  patient 
reassurance.  "  She'll  be  here  in  the  morning  all  right, 
and  Minna  will  look  after  the  children  till  I  get  back 
from  the  station.  Come,  say  good-bye  to  little 
Mary." 

"But  George — where  is  George?" 

Sure  enough,  where  was  George? 

"George,  George,  where  are  you?  George!  Come 
at  once  and  say  good-bye  to  your  mother!" 

"I  can't  go  without  seeing  George,"  sobbed  Clytie. 

"  George !     George ! " 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  235 

Hurrying  neighbours  rushed  to  search  for  the  miss- 
ing boy;  garden  and  street  resounded  with  shouts 
for  George. 

"Where  is  George  Langshaw?  His  mother  is 
waiting  to  say  good-bye  to  him!'* 

"George  Langshaw!"  "Georgie!"  "I  saw  him 
only  a  moment  ago  in  Bournan's  yard."  "No,  he 
isn't  there."  "Geor-ge  Lang-shaw!"  "George! 
George!" 

Finally  unearthed  from  somebody's  rear  premises, 
he  was  haled  to  the  grasp  of  his  father's  hand,  grown 
incredibly  muddy  since  dinner,  his  yellow  locks  hang- 
ing over  an  encrusted  cheek. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  ever  get  yourself  so 
filthy?  Stand  up,  sir,  and  kiss  your  mother  good-bye. 
What  do  you  mean  by  miming  off  like  this?  Go  in 
the  house  now  and  stay  there  till  bedtime." 

"Oh,  Joe,  please  don't  be  cross  to  him  now — 
please!" 

"No,  I  won't — all  right;  but  hurry  up,"  he  ad- 
monished her. 

George's  round  face,  masculinely  sullen  and  defiant 
of  emotional  scenes,  emerged  from  his  mother's  tear- 
ful embrace;  his  coat  sleeve  rubbed  across  the  place 
where  her  lips  had  been  while  his  eyes  winked  un- 
willingly. Perhaps  his  father  had  an  inner  sympathy 
with  George. 

Langshaw  lifted  his  wife  into  the  car,  stepping 
in  after  her,  slammed  the  door,  and  they  sped 
with  little  Mary's  sudden  piercing  shrieks  following 
them: 


236         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I  want  to  go  with  my  mother!  I  want  to  go  with 
my  mother !  I  want  to  go — to  go — to  go-o-o " 

The  ride  was  a  silent  one.  They  bumped  and 
jarred  and  whizzed  along  barren  roads,  stuck  fast  in 
the  traffic  of  streets.  Night  had  come  on  when,  after 
passing  through  the  rows  of  lamps,  they  arrived  at 
the  big  station  and  ensconced  themselves  in  the  white 
marble  waiting  room,  with  its  long  vistas,  in  which  it 
seemed  that  a  mere  handful  of  pigmies  were  scattered. 
One  of  them,  however,  promptly  turned  out  to  be 
Mr.  Wilkinson,  while-bearded  and  bright-eyed,  a 
slouch  hat  over  his  white  hair  and  a  coloured  porter 
in  tow  carrying  two  enormous  bags.  Mr.  Wilkinson 
had  a  kind  homeliness  in  his  manner  that  made  every- 
thing seem  natural  and  usual  and  for  the  best  every 
way. 

"Well,  we're  all  here  in  time,"  he  said  congratula- 
torily.  "My  wife  says  I'm  so  absent-minded  she's 
never  sure  of  me  unless  she  sees  me!  Now,  Mrs. 
Langshaw,  this  little  trip  is  going  to  do  you  a  world 
of  good.  The  only  trouble  is  that  your  stay  will  be 
too  short;  you  know  you'll  hardly  get  out  there  be- 
fore you'll  find  yourself  at  home  again." 

"How  long  before  the  train  starts?"  Clytie  asked. 

"The  gates  won't  be  open  for  twenty  minutes  yet." 

"Then  I  think  you'd  better  go  right  home,  Joe," 
Clytie  implored  her  husband  anxiously.  "The 
children  are  all  alone  with  Minna.  As  long  as  Mr. 
Wilkinson  is  here  with  the  tickets  perhaps  he'll  check 
my  trunk,  so  that  you  can  go  right  along.  I'd  rather, 
really!  Please!" 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  237 

"Very  well,"  said  Langshaw. 

Their  formal  leavetaking,  to  the  public  eye,  was 
brief;  only  he  and  she  knew.  Then  he  had  left 
her. 

Kind  Mr.  Wilkinson  kept  on  talking  for  a  few  min- 
utes, though  Clytie  didn't  hear  what  he  said,  before 
he  also  hurried  off — the  porter  with  the  bags  still 
following  him — to  see  to  her  luggage.  It  gave  her  an 
unexpectedly  lost  feeling  to  be  left,  even  momentarily, 
alone  with  only  the  long  cloak  lying  on  the  seat  be- 
side her  and  her  suitcase  to  show  that  she  actually 
belonged  anywhere. 

The  station  was  very,  very  big  and  glittering  and 
light;  tired  little  Clytie  was  a  large  component  part 
of  a  home,  but  here  she  was  an  unnoticed  atom  in  the 
universe.  Her  thoughts  flew  desolately  back  with 
her  husband  to  the  house  she  had  just  quitted,  filled 
with  her  dear  ones,  and  brooded  over  them. 

It  began  to  seem  as  if  Mr.  Wilkinson  were  gone  a 
long  time.  Perhaps  he  was  having  trouble  hi  check- 
ing the  trunks;  but  he  must  be  all  right;  he  would 
undoubtedly  be  there  soon. 

If  a  man  were  looking  after  you  of  course  every- 
thing must  be  all  right!  But  still  he  didn't  come — 
it  was  getting  very  strange  someway.  She  leaned 
forward,  searching  the  oncoming  groups  with  sud- 
denly frightened  eyes  and  beating  'heart;  people 
stared  at  her.  And  still  Mr.  Wilkinson  didn't  come! 
Oh,  this  was  too  strange!  She  rose  at  last,  and  her 
eyes,  as  she  turned,  stared  terror  at  a  clock.  Was 
that  the  time?  Why,  the  tram  must  be  long  gone! 


238         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

What  had  happened?    No,  perhaps  he  meant  to 
take  a  later  one — and  still  he  did  not  come ! 

IV 

THE  journey  home  seemed  to  take  but  a  moment 
to  Langshaw.  He  made  connections;  he  slept  in 
the  train,  stumbling  out  at  the  right  station  merely 
by  instinct.  But  it  took  a  strange  effort  to  insert 
his  key  in  the  lock  and  enter  the  house  that  had  been 
so  alive  with  preparations  a  few  hours  before. 

Already  it  wore  a  strange  and  almost  nauseatingly 
alien  look.  A  muddy  rubber  boot  of  George's  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  his  equally  muddy  overcoat 
lay  on  the  floor  in  the  library.  He  went  upstairs 
to  see  that  the  sleeping  children  were  all  right,  and 
woke  the  equally  sleeping  Minna,  sitting  by  Baby. 
Clytie's  dressing  table  was  still  in  disorder  as  she  had 
left  it;  his  picture  and  those  of  the  children  were  gone; 
a  discarded  red  wrapper  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair 
and  a  worn  little  red  Turkish  slipper  perched,  toe 
up,  on  the  bed. 

Langshaw  took  off  his  coat  and  collar,  and  putting 
on  his  big  woolly  dressing  gown  went  down  to  the 
chilly  library.  There  was  no  oil  in  the  lamp,  but  he 
turned  up  the  gas,  thrust  a  wad  of  newspapers  under 
a  couple  of  logs  on  the  hearth,  and  touched  a  match 
to  them,  and,  wheeling  a  big  armchair  in  front  of  it, 
sat  down  with  his  pipe.  His  free  hour  had  come  at 
last.  He  could  sit  here  all  night,  if  he  wanted  to,  and 
think  things  out  and  find  some  way  that  in  the  next 
few  days  might  make  his  plans  fit  in  with  Henkel's. 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  239 

Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on  the  dining  table,  visible 
through  the  wide  doorway  and  usually  bestowed 
neatly  with  a  lace  centrepiece  and  fern  dish  over  its 
mahogany.  Now,  instead,  the  white  cloth  had  been 
left  from  dinner,  pulled  untidily,  and  a  couple  of  dishes 
remained  on  it. 

If  that  was  the  way  Minna  intended  to  let  things 
go !  The  thought  lashed  him  to  fury.  When  was  it 
that  little  Mary  was  to  take  her  cough  medicine? 
And  how  many  spoons  were  there?  At  the  prospect 
of  Mrs.  Mulger  on  the  morrow  he  realized,  with 
a  sort  of  terror,  that  his  mind  wasn't  free  at  all;  a 
thousand  small,  unwonted  cares  were  lurking  to  in- 
vade it.  Poor  Langshaw  felt,  with  a  dull  anger, 
that  if  a  man  had  to  earn  a  living  he  couldn't  afford  to 
be  absorbed  by  such  things;  it  was  in  a  way  an  out- 
rage that  he  should  be  expected  to.  The  strain  of 
the  past  weeks  was  telling  on  him  disastrously,  in 
spite  of  all  his  will  power.  After  repeated  efforts 
the  wood  on  the  hearth  only  sent  up  sporadic  wreaths 
of  smoke.  The  chill  emptiness  of  the  house  made 
its  way  to  the  soul.  He  had  insisted  on  Clytie's 
going;  it  was  all  his  doing;  but  why  had  she  gone? 
None  but  the  one  who  is  left  ever  knows  what  it  is  to 
be  left.  There  is  a  rawness  of  solitude  that  invades 
the  spirit  that  can  never  be  told ;  in  the  after-comfort 
of  the  beloved  presence  the  words  for  it  are  lost. 

Langshaw  tried  in  vain  to  imagine  that  his  wife 
had  just  run  out  for  an  hour  at  a  neighbour's.  She 
seemed  to  have  taken  away  a  part  of  him  with  her — 
in  homely  parlance,  he  felt  he  wasn't  "all  there"; 


240         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

his  working  brain,  that  he  had  counted  on  so  much, 
he  saw  with  fear  was  dull,  sodden,  inert,  with  no 
helpful  promise  of  being  anything  more  under  these 
conditions.  That  loudly  ticking  clock  in  the  hall 
told  him  how  few  minutes  had  been  ticked  off  from 
an  absence  that  already  seemed  endless.  Six 
weeks  of  this  sort  of  thing!  Oh,  well,  it  would  be 
different  by  to-morrow.  Yet  as  eleven  o'clock 
struck  he  felt  as  a  man  may  who  has  gone  blind, 
or  as  one  who  is  just  imprisoned — a  life  sentence 
to  be  gone  through  and  those  first  two  hours  so 
long! 

There  is,  in  the  daily  married  companionship  of 
two  people  who  love  each  other,  an  overtone  that 
comes  from  the  harmony  of  that  love,  independent 
of  and  diviner  than  the  conscious  efforts  of  either.  It 
is  the  thing  that  cannot  be  reckoned  on,  cannot 
be  formulated,  cannot  be  explained,  cannot  be  com- 
pelled. It  is  there  or  it  is  not;  whether  one  is  sad 
or  lively,  differing  or  agreeing,  it  ineffably  ennobles 
and  revives  and  inspires. 

All  discords  melt  into  it,  and  without  it  married 
life  is  only  a  sordid  struggle  weighted  down  with 
stupid  cares  and  disappointments,  as  truly  dull  as  it 
seems  to  the  eye  of  an  outsider.  With  Clytie's  bodily 
presence  this  intangible  good,  that  alone  made  life 
worth  living,  had  also  departed. 

Langshaw  rose  soberly  after  a  while  and  went  on 
his  accustomed  rounds,  closing  up  the  house.  "  Thank 
Heaven,"  he  breathed,  "to-morrow  will  be  a  working 
day";  and  fancying  that  he  heard  someone  fumbling 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  241 

with  the  knob  of  the  front  door,  strode  through  the 
hall  and  opened  it.  Clytie — strangely  altered,  her 
hat  rakishly  atilt  on  her  tumbled  curls,  her  dark  eyes 
glowing — stood  on  the  threshold. 

"You!"  he  cried.  The  sight  of  her,  his  touch  on 
her  arm,  sent  such  a  thrill  of  delicious  surprise  and 
unaccustomedness  through  both,  as  though  they 
had  been  separated  for  years  and  intoxicatingly  re- 
united, or  as  if  she  were  his  bride  and  he  her  husband 
of  an  hour,  that  they  found  themselves  absurdly 
laughing;  and  then  laughed  and  laughed  increasingly 
for  the  sheer  foolish  happiness  of  the  thing. 

But  at  last  they  were  seated,  her  hands  in  his,  while 
she  explained: 

"I  was  so  scared!  I  went  round,  looking.  Then 
I  found  the  porter  who  had  carried  Mr.  Wilkinson's 
bags,  and  he  said  that  Mr.  Wilkinson  had  stopped  to 
talk  to  another  gentleman  and  after  a  while  had  said : 
'Bless  my  soul,  I'm  so  absent-minded  I'll  miss 
that  train,'  and  then  he  hurried  for  it  and  the  porter 
got  him  aboard  just  in  time.  Then  I  telephoned  you 
twice  and  they  said  they  couldn't  get  you." 

"I  was  here  all  the  time,"  protested  Langshaw 
indignantly. 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  knew  that.  Then  I  met  Mr. 
Stanton,  that  nice  Mr.  Stanton  you  used  to  know. 
He'd  just  come  back  from  somewhere.  He  wanted 
to  know  what  you  were  doing.  Well,  he  carried  my 
bag,  put  me  on  the  tube,  and  then  I  knew  I  was  all 
right.  I  had  to  wait  an  hour  for  the  last  train  out 
here." 


242         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Stanton!"  said  Langshaw.  And  then  again  in  a 
different  tone:  "Stanton!" 

Happiness,  the  illuminator,  struck  a  vivid  flash 
across  a  suddenly  clear  and  working  brain.  Well, 
why  not?  Why,  of  course!  Not  the  way  Henkel 

had  intended,  but No  need  to  think  of  that 

now;  it  would  keep.  Clytie  had  found  his  man 
for  him. 

"But  how  about  you,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  You  needn't  try  to  send 
me  off  again  to  strangers,  for  I'm  not  going,"  said 
Clytie.  "I've  been  away  miles  and  years!  Do 
you  know,  Joe  Langshaw,  that  I  cried  all  night  for 
four  nights  because  you  were  sending  me  away?  It 
nearly  killed  me.  You  sha'n't  do  it  again.  I'll  be 
good;  I  won't  sweep.  I'll  rest  every  day;  I  will, 
I  will!  I  always  knew  I  could  get  strong  just  as 
well  at  home.  Well,  I  am  willing  now."  Her  lip 
trembled,  but  a  smile  shone  through  the  dimness 
in  her  eyes.  "Gracious,  has  Minna  left  that  table- 
cloth on?  I'll  train  her  to-morrow!"  Her  voice 
changed  again.  "Oh,  Joe,  I  need  you  so  much — 
say  you  needed  me,  too ! " 

"Need  a  little  bit  of  a  wife  like  you!"  said  Lang- 
shaw, with  tender  scoffing.  He  rose  and  took  up  her 
wraps.  "Do  you  know  what  time  it  is,  Mrs.  Lang- 
shaw? It's  half -past  one!" 

The  smouldering  logs  in  the  fireplace  suddenly  shot 
up  a  loudly  crackling  flame.  The  angel  of  a  sense 
of  humour  had  slipped  into  the  house  with  Clytie, 
unfurling  his  amethystine  wings,  all  iridescent,  spark- 


CLYTIE  COMES  BACK  243 

ling  of  gold  and  purple  light,  until  they  reached  to  the 
ceiling  and  spread  out  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the 
room,  filling  all  the  dark  places  with  little  scintillat- 
ing, dancing  gleams.  One  of  them  touched  Clytie's 
hair  as  Langshaw  snatched  her  in  his  arms. 


THE  SHELL 

JOHN  TAUNTON  was  dressing  in  his  devas- 
tated bachelor  quarters — from  which  his  friend 
Grimshaw  had  gone  to  be  married  the  day  before 
— his  long,  thin  figure  and  long,  thin  face  with  its 
slightly  crooked  nose,  deep-set  twinkling  eyes  and 
pleasant  mouth  reflected  in  the  mirror  in  various 
arresting  stages  of  abstraction;  he  was  purposing 
to  bring  his  tentative  affairs  to  their  foregone  con- 
clusion this  evening  by  asking  Elisabeth  Willard, 
whom  he  had  known  for  years,  to  be  his  wife.  An 
epidemic  of  marriage  had  struck  his  friends  this  last 
year,  leaving  him  somewhat  lonely  and  a  little 
envious. 

To  see  Grimshaw  two  nights  ago,  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
his  honest  countenance  red  and  contorted  with  the 
effort  of  clearing  out  his  belongings,  it  was  hard  to 
connect  him  with  the  romantic  ideal;  but  it  had  been 
given  Taunton  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  lovely  little 
bride  after  the  ceremony,  when  her  eyes  were  resting 
on  Grimshaw's  unconscious  face  with  a  look  so  in- 
effably charged  with  reverence  and  adoration  and  the 
high  passion  of  giving,  that  Taunton  had  averted  his 
gaze  with  a  swelling  of  the  heart.  He  shook  his  head 
ruefully  now  at  the  chance  of  any  such  idealization 
in  his  case.  No  woman,  so  far  as  he  knew,  had  ever 

244 


THE  SHELL  245 

been  "in  love"  with  him,  with  the  exception,  perhaps, 
of  one  he  didn't  like. 

He  had  always,  of  course,  expected  to  marry  some 
day;  but  family  demands  had  absorbed  his  youth — 
he  had  an  additional  twinge  now  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  really  older  than  he  looked — and  since  then  his 
salary  hadn't  seemed  to  keep  pace  with  the  latter- 
day  High  Cost  of  Living,  though  his  friends  had 
certainly  married  unflinchingly  even  in  spite  of  the 
reduction  of  wage  which  this  sudden  war  depression 
had  wrought. 

He  had  come  to  a  decision  now  soberly,  yet  with  a 
real  satisfaction  and  lightness  of  heart — he  was  very 
fond  of  Elisabeth;  if  the  Great  Event  wasn't  exactly 
as  he  imagined  it  would  be,  why,  it  was  a  truism  that 
few  things  were. 

Reaching  for  a  whisk  broom  on  the  bureau  he 
knocked  over  a  Japanese  box,  the  contents  of  which 
— studs,  dice,  damaged  scarf  pins — went  flying  over 
the  floor.  Taunton  uttered  an  exclamation  as  a  tiny 
scallop  shell  met  his  eye.  .  .  .  He  picked  it  up 
in  his  long  fingers,  looking  at  it  with  a  strangely 
awakened  expression;  it  brought  back  to  him  the  face 
of  a  girl  who  had  deeply  attracted  him  four  years 
before.  He  had  met  her  at  a  ball.  It  was  not  only 
her  animated  face,  with  its  clear  complexion,  limpid 
blue  eyes,  and  warm  red  mouth  that  glued  his  eyes 
to  her;  the  set  of  her  small  chestnut-crowned  head, 
the  accentuated  rhythm  of  her  light  form  in  the 
dance,  the  indescribably  lovely  way  of  placing  her 
feet,  breathed  a  perfection  of  motion  that  seemed  in 


246         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

some  subtle  way  the  outcome  of  a  high  and  lovely 
quality  of  mind.  The  quality  of  her  voice  bore  out 
his  thought  of  her.  Her  name  was  Caroline  Lovell; 
her  friends  called  her  Carina.  He  thought  of  her  a 
good  deal  afterward,  without  making  any  effort  to 
see  her.  Then  a  year  later  he  met  her  with  a  party 
at  the  Beach. 

They  had  talked  for  an  hour,  sitting  on  the  sands 
and  watching  the  waves.  She  had  given  him  the 
half  of  a  scallop  shell,  with  the  laughing  invitation 
to  come  and  match  it  with  hers  when  he  felt  like 
it. 

He  had  called  at  her  father's  apartment,  by  invita- 
tion, in  the  fall,  to  find  her  as  delightful  as  ever,  but 
there  were  others  present.  That  was  more  than  two 
years  ago  and  he  had  not  seen  her  since.  Why?  It 
would  be  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  the  very  force  of  the 
attraction  acted  in  its  way  as  a  deterrent :  any  further 
effort  had  to  be  made  consciously  by  himself.  There 
was  none  of  that  casual  meeting  at  the  houses  of 
friends  that  insensibly  helps  along  an  intimacy. 

Taunton  stood  looking  at  the  shell.  .  .  .  Two 
years!  She  might  have  moved  anywhere  in  that 
time;  she  mightn't  remember  him.  He  knew  that 
her  father  had  died  since.  An  irresistible  impulse 
possessed  him.  He  made  for  the  telephone  book  and 
called  up  the  Chalmere.  A  hall  boy  answered, 
"Yes,  Miss  Lovell  is  in."  In  another  moment,  as  it 
seemed,  unbelievably,  he  heard  her  voice:  "Who  is 
this?" 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Lovell !     I  hate  to  be  so  sud- 


THE  SHELL  247 

den,  but  may  I  bring  iny  half  of  the  shell  to  match 
yours?" 

He  heard  a  gasp  at  the  other  end. 

"How  very  odd!  How  very  odd!  Do  you  know, 
when  you  just  called  me  to  the  telephone  I  was  think- 
ing of  you?" 

"Were  you  really?  That  was  strange!  And  may 
I  see  you  if  I  come  over  now?" 

"Why,  yes,  if  you—    -  Yes,  indeed." 

"All  right!"  His  tone  had  a  note  of  jubilance  in 
it;  he  felt  suddenly  as  eager  as  a  boy.  "  Good-bye  till 
then." 

"Good-bye." 

He  hurriedly  completed  his  preparations  with, 
however,  a  sobering  thought  as  he  went  out,  that  this 
might,  after  all,  prove  to  be  like  any  other  conven- 
tional call,  more  or  less  inadequate  and  boring. 

II 

Miss  CARINA  LOVELL  lived  in  a  small  apart- 
ment in  an  old-fashioned  part  of  the  city.  The 
room,  as  his  large  figure  followed  her  into  it  now, 
contained  only  a  light  stand,  a  few  wicker  chairs, 
and  a  black  jardiniere  with  green  branches  in  it,  giv- 
ing a  rather  pleasant  Japanese  effect  of  bareness.  It 
struck  Taunton  suddenly  that  her  father  had  left 
only  debts  when  he  died.  But  that  delightful  im- 
pression of  Miss  Lovell  was  instantly  the  same.  She 
welcomed  him,  though  her  hand  barely  touched  his; 
he  had  noticed  before  a  shy  personal  reservation  in 
her  frankest  moments.  She  wore  a  plain  white  cot- 


248         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

ton  frock,  not  an  evening  frock  at  all;  but  the  slipper 
that  showed  under  it  was  silver-buckled  and  bronze, 
like  her  hair.  The  first  greetings  over  they  sat  re- 
garding each  other. 

"Well!"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Well!"  he  returned.  He  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket.  "Here's  my  half  of  the  shell." 

She  bent  over  to  touch  its  tiny  translucence  with 
her  finger  tips.  "Oh,  I've  lost  mine — I'm  so  sorry! 
But  it  really  doesn't  matter,  does  it?  I  matched  the 
thought.  That  counts  the  same,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  surely  does,"  said  Taunton,  his  twinkling,  deep- 
set  eyes  scanning  her  face.  "Tell  me,  when  you  an- 
swered the  telephone  you  said ' 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  stop  him,  as  if  listening  for 
some  sound  beyond. 

"Wait  a  moment,  I  thought  I  heard  .  .  .  No, 
it's  all  right.  Yes,  I  was  just  thinking  of  you;  I  was 
in  a  quandary.  You  remember,  when  we  had  that 
talk  at  the  Beach,  we  were  speaking  about  making 
decisions  that  involved  others,  and  you  said  that  the 
simplest  way  out  of  a  difficulty  was  often  the  best. 
I  was  wondering  quite  suddenly  to-night  what  you 
would  think  the  simplest  way  in  this  case,  and 
then  I  heard  your  voice!  Do  you  mind  if  I  tell  you 
about  it  all?" 

"I'm  honoured." 

"Well Oh!"  She  jumped  up  suddenly  and  al- 
most flew  from  the  room.  He  sat  wondering  for  some 
minutes  before  she  returned.  "  One  has  to  be  so  care- 
ful; she  mustn't  move  at  all — Gladys,  I  mean.  You 


THE  SHELL  249 

see,  it  was  like  this:  Of  course,  I  know  she  and  Bert 
shouldn't  have  got  married,  they  were  so  young  and 
he  was  making  so  little,  even  then."  She  stopped, 
her  blue  eyes  raised  earnestly  to  his.  "But  many 
people  do  it,  anyway." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Taunton  encouragingly. 

"I've  been  a  private  secretary  in  an  office  since  my 
father  died,  and  Gladys  was  one  of  the  little  tele- 
phone girls  there,  and  so  pretty.  And  soon  after  that 
Bert  lost  his  job ;  you  know  how  things  have  been  this 
winter.  Oh,  it's  terrible  not  to  be  able  to  get  work! 
I  can't  wonder  if  he  does  drink  sometimes  when  he 
has  a  few  pennies;  I  might  myself!  When  I  see  that 
long  line  of  the  unemployed  as  I  go  to  the  office  each 
day  .  .  .  and  they're  so  thin,  and  so  patient,  and 

— their  faces "     Her  eyes,  fastened  on  Taunton, 

brimmed  suddenly,  her  red  lips  trembled  piteously; 
she  made  wild,  ineffectual  dashes  at  her  gown  with 
her  lovely  hands. 

"I  thought  I  had  it  here;  my  handkerchief,  I  mean. 
Where  can  it 

"Take  mine,"  said  Taunton  hastily,  thrusting  a 
clean  expanse  of  linen  into  her  hand.  "  There,  that's 
right!"  he  approved  cheerily,  when  her  face  emerged 
from  its  folds,,  half  smiling,  though  the  eyelashes  were 
still  wet. 

"It's  so  perfectly  silly  of  me  to  act  this  way,"  she 
breathed.  "But  sometimes  it  just  chokes  me  all  up, 
because,  though  I  do  what  I  can  to  help,  it  is  so  little! 
But  about  Gladys  and  Bert — ten  days  ago  they  were 
turned  into  the  street  on  account  of  the  rent.  I  sup- 


250         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

pose  they  never  paid  it  to  the  poor  landlord !  I  gave 
Bert  money  for  the  lodging  house  and  brought  Gladys 
home  with  me;  and — that  night  her  baby  was 
born." 

"Great  heavens!"  cried  Taunton,  completely 
startled  out  of  his  calm. 

Carina  nodded  solemnly,  looking  at  him  large-eyed. 

"Yes,  and  there  are  only  hall  boys  here;  but  at  last 
we  did  get  the  doctor  and  a  nurse."  She  shivered, 
her  eyes  grew  bigger.  "  It  was — oh,  terrible !  It's  so 
strange — isn't  it? — when  you  really  touch  life,  and 
know  it's  been  going  on  all  the  time  like  that,  when 
you  never  thought  of  it.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  think 
of  it!  But  all  my  friends,  and  at  the  office — they  are 
furious  at  me  for  having  Gladys  here.  They  think 
it's  too  much  for  me  to  do,  though  a  woman  comes  for 
a  few  hours  in  the  daytime,  when  I'm  away.  But 
Gladys  has  been  so  very  ill — she  couldn't  be  moved! 
And  they  don't  understand.  Of  course  the  crowd 
can't  come  here  now,  and  I  can't  leave;  they  think  me 
headstrong.  But  it  would  be  all  right,  really,  if  it 
were  not  for  Bert." 

"Why,  Bert?"  queried  Taunton,  deeply  moved. 

"Well,  naturally  he  wants  to  see  Gladys — and  he 
is  a  nice  boy,  and  I  help  out  all  I  can;  but  the  last 
couple  of  times  he  has  been — intoxicated;  and  the 
people  in  the  house  object.  You  can't  blame  them ! 
Really,  he  scared  me  last  time;  I  had  trouble  making 
him  go.  I  don't  want  to  send  for  the  police,  on 
Gladys's  account,  and  yet —  -  What  he  needs  is  a 
steady  job.  It's  perfectly  foolish,  of  course,  my  tell- 


THE  SHELL  251 

ing  you  all  this,  but  I'm  afraid  he's  coming  to-night, 
and  I  don't  know  just  what  to  do." 

"All  right,  let  him  come,"  said  Taunton  promptly. 
"I'll  take  care  of  Bert." 

"Oh,  will  you  really?"  said  Carina.  She  clasped 
her  exquisite  hands,  leaning  forward  breathlessly, 
her  chin  slightly  raised;  the  most  charming  attitude, 
Taunton  thought,  he  had  ever  seen.  Her  total  un- 
consciousness of  self,  the  quick  and  lovely  changes  of 
expression,  her  generous  warmth  of  heart  and  unfail- 
ing sense  of  justice,  all  touched  him  inexpressibly. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  to  thank  you  enough 
.  .  .  Hark!" — as  a  tiny  wail  made  itself  heard— 
"  That  is  the  baby."  She  vanished  from  the  room  as 
she  spoke,  but  after  a  minute  she  returned  with  a 
white  worsted  bundle  in  her  arms.  "He  mustn't 
wake  his  little  mother.  I've  brought  him  in  for  you 
to  see." 

"No!"  said  Taunton,  rising  in  alarm  and  backing 
as  she  advanced.  "No,  no!" 

"Yes,  you  must.  How  perfectly  ridiculous!" 
She  came  after  him  more  swiftly  as  he  retreated 
around  the  room  again  and  again,  her  face  suddenly 
all  a-sparkle  with  noiseless  laughter.  "Why,  you 
were  once  a  baby  like  this  yourself." 

"Well,  I  don't  remember  it,"  argued  Taunton,  cor- 
nered by  the  mantelpiece.  "Take  it  away!" 

"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind."  Her  voice 
changed.  "He's  so  little,  the  littlest  thing  I  ever 
saw,  and  so  warm  and  dear."  She  held  out  the 
bundle.  "You've  got  to  look  at  him,  or  you'll  hurt 


252         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

my  feelings  dreadfully.  Nobody  will  take  any  in- 
terest in  him  but  me!  It's  dreadful  to  have  nobody 
like  him.  .  .  .  Please !  .  .  There — I  knew 
you  would."  She  took  up  an  infinitesimal  pink 
velvet  fist  and  smoothed  Taunton's  cheek  with  it. 
"We  know  our  friends,  don't  we,  little  blessed? 
He  loves  his  own  Carina!  Isn't  he  cunning?" 

"He's  not  so  bad,"  said  Taunton  soberly,  looking 
down  into  the  tiny  rounded  face  in  its  white  worsted 
nest.  "Shake,  old  fellow!  I  wish  you  luck. " 

"That  was  just  sweet  of  you,"  she  said,  with  a  lit- 
tle tremor  in  her  voice.  "  Oh,  there's  the  bell ! "  She 
dashed  over  to  the  button  and  pushed  it,  the  baby 
still  held  fast  in  one  arm,  and  stood  for  a  moment  nod- 
ding, large-eyed  and  confirmatory,  at  Taunton  as  the 
sound  of  a  voice  swiftly  drew  near.  "Yes,  that's 
Bert.  .  .  .  No,  I'll  open  the  door.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Bert,  you  must  not  make  so  much  noise,  they  won't 
let  us  stay  here  if  you  do." 

"I'll  paste  the  whole  lot  of  'em  in  the  snoot,"  said 
the  boy — he  was  no  more  than  a  black-haired  youth, 
his  face  red  and  inflamed. 

"What  are  you  keeping  my  wife  and  kid  here  for, 
living  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  me  in  the  gutter? 
How  many  hours  did  I  wait  in  line  to-day? — tell  me 
that — and  you  living  so  soft  here !  You  tell  me  I'll  get 
a  job,  to  keep  me  out  of  the  way,  that's  all  it  is.  You 
give  me  that  kid;  you  can't  turn  me  out  as  long 
as  I've  got  him.  He's  mine — give  him  to  me,  I 
say!" 

He  made  a  futile  grab  at  Carina,  shrinking  back- 


THE  SHELL  253 

ward,  with  the  child  held  closer,  his  arm  arrested  in 
mid-air  by  Taunton's  grip. 

"Le'  go  my  arm,  I  say;  le'  go  my  arm!  you;  le' 
go  my  arm ! " 

"Yes,  I  will  not!"  said  Taunton  pleasantly. 
"You're  going  to  walk  straight  out  of  the  door  with 
me,  just  like  this.  Good-bye,  Miss  Lovell.  I'll  tele- 
phone you.  I'll  see  he  doesn't  bother  you  again!" 

His  hand  took  an  extra  grip  on  the  thin  arm  he 
held.  "Brace  up,  will  you?  If  you  don't  go  down 
these  stairs  without  any  noise,  I'll  choke  you. 
.  .  .  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  my  place  for  a 
scalding  hot  bath  and  a  supper  and  a  bed  somewhere 
— just  let  that  sink  into  your  head.  We'll  look  up  a 
job  for  you  to-morrow.  Now,  don't  cry  .  .  . 
Here,  brace  up!" 

As  Taunton  walked  down  the  street  with  his  stum- 
bling, weeping  charge,  he  was  looking  forward  to 
recounting  the  whole  adventure  to  Elisabeth;  it  was, 
without  exception,  the  most  extraordinary  evening 
call  he  had  ever  made  in  his  life. 

m 

THE  glow  of  new  effort  remained  with  him  all  the 
following  day,  which  he  had  begun  by  putting  Bert 
temporarily  in  the  hands  of  the  janitor.  He  had  tele- 
phoned early  to  Carina,  to  receive  her  grateful  ap- 
proval, with  the  addition  of  a  ridiculous  message  that 
the  boy  was  saying  "Hello"  to  him.  Later,  after 
some  nerving  of  himself  up  to  it,  he  had  telephoned 
again  that  with  her  permission  he  would  send  some 


254         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

soup  and  delicacies  for  the  baby's  mother.  He  had 
an  amused  feeling  that  he  had  a  ready-made  family 
on  his  hands;  there  was  an  odd  sort  of  pleasure  in  it. 

To  add  to  his  sense  of  living  in  a  different  world, 
he  received  hurried  word  from  Elisabeth  that  she 
was  starting  south  that  evening  with  a  sick  aunt. 
Taunton  saw  them  off  on  the  train;  Elisabeth,  tall, 
dark,  and  capable  as  usual  in  her  charge  of  the  in- 
valid relative,  adjuring  him  to  purchase  a  thicker 
overcoat — she  was  always  managing  things  for  peo- 
ple— amid  the  hasty  and  fragmentary  adieus  and 
promises  to  write.  He  had  no  chance  to  talk  to  her 
about  Miss  Lovell. 

He  couldn't  help  wondering,  as  he  strolled  home 
afterward,  how  the  latter  was  getting  along. 

It  was  barely  nine  o'clock  now.  He  hesitated,  and 
then  went  to  the  telephone. 

Yes,  Carina's  voice  answered;  there  was  a  faint 
note  of  surprise  in  it — how  a  voice  "gives  itself  away  " 
in  its  delicate  gradations  over  the  telephone,  with  the 
modifying  face  of  the  speaker  unseen! — that  made 
Taunton  quickly  apologize. 

"I  just  thought  that  you'd  like  to  know  that  the 
janitor  here  thinks  he's  got  Bert  a  job." 

"Oh»  that's  very  kind  of  you!"  The  tone  was 
warmer.  "Gladys  will  be  so  glad  to  hear  it.  She 
has  taken  some  of  the  soup  you  sent.  Thank  you  for 
calling  me  up." 

"And  the  baby's  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  slept  like  an  angel  to-day;  you  turned 
his  luck." 


THE  SHELL  255 

"That's  good.  I'll  escort  Bert  around  to-morrow 
evening,  if  you'll  let  me,  to  see  that  he  doesn't  get 
into  trouble  on  the  way." 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much.     Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

The  reflection  came  to  him  as  he  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver that  he  couldn't  call  her  up  again  before  seeing 
her  the  next  evening. 

His  rooms  were  in  dreary  disorder.  Grimshaw  had 
been  the  orderly  one;  Grimshaw,  who  was  reaping  un- 
deserved benefits  now  from  that  too-charming  bride. 

Taunton  sat,  pipe  in  mouth,  given  up  to  discon- 
nected yet  deeply  interesting  thought.  When  Elisa- 
beth was  in  charge,  after  they  were  married — they 
might  be  married  pretty  soon — they  could  invite 
Carina  Lovell  over  to  little  dinners,  and  "help  her 
out."  There  was  something  fine  about  that  girl, 
when  you  came  down  to  it,  actually  doing  the  brave, 
kind  things  that  people  would  like  to  do  and  couldn't. 
It  struck  him  afresh  that  she  had  no  ties  of  her  own  to 
interfere. 

He  had  a  sudden  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  call 
her  up,  for  the  fourth  time,  and  say  jovially,  comrade- 
like: 

"Hello,  are  you  asleep  yet?  Well,  neither  am  I!" 
But  he  knew  that  it  couldn't  be  done — absolutely  it 
could  not. 

IV 

TAUNTON,  during  the  weeks  following,  was  a 
busy  man;  work  at  the  office  crowded  down  on  him 


256         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

by  the  lessening  of  the  force;  his  own  salary  was 
trenchantly  cut  in  half,  just  as  he  had  became  used 
to  feeling  a  pleasant  ease  of  expenditure,  yet  it  did 
not  seem  to  change  his  plans.  He  had  broached  the 
subject  of  Carina's  affairs,  after  all,  in  writing  to 
Elisabeth,  but  her  well-meant  replies  were  somewhat 
disappointing;  she  would  be  glad  to  help  him  in  any 
way,  though  she  heard  that  Miss  Lovell,  who  was 
very  self-willed,  was  always  taking  care  of  queer 
people.  Later  he  began  to  resent  Elisabeth's  capable 
advice,  as  if  she  were  in  charge  of  the  situation  in- 
stead of  he;  he  needed  no  suggestions  from  outside 
as  to  Carina's  welfare;  that  wasn't  the  point. 

He  did  not  go  to  Carina's  that  next  evening  with 
Bert,  because  Bert  had  disappeared,  but  he  went 
there  to  tell  her  so. 

Bert,  strangely,  did  not  return  at  all,  and  there 
were  few  evenings  in  which  Taunton's  large,  steadily 
pacing  form  hadn't  gone  down  that  narrow  hall  of 
the  tiny  apartment  on  his  way  to  consult  or  report  a 
conjecture,  even  though  his  stay  might  be  only  for  a 
few  moments. 

Gladys  did  not  get  well  as  fast  as  she  should,  she 
was  very  weak  and  apathetic;  Taunton  had  had  piti- 
ful glimpses  of  her  shrinking  figure  with  long  braids 
down  the  back,  her  white,  drawn  child's  face,  and 
drooping  lids.  But  the  baby  thrived,  and  Carina's 
pride  in  him  grew.  Taunton  began  to  take  a  curious 
half  interest  in  the  development  of  "the  boy,"  who 
slept  out  on  the  fire  escape  in  a  box  which  Taunton 
had  sent  over  from  a  grocer's  and  helped  to  contrive 


THE  SHELL  257 

into  a  nest.  The  infant  evolved  an  absurd  one-sided 
effect  of  smiling  with  his  tiny  mouth  when  one 
touched  the  corner  of  it  gingerly  with  a  long  fore- 
finger. Taunton  would  have  liked  to  touch  the 
corner  of  Carina's  mouth  in  the  same  way.  .  .  . 
Carina  was  always  extraordinarily  herself,  swiftly 
moving,  indescribably  warm,  her  clear  eyes  waiting 
on  his,  whole-heartedly  interested  hi  every  phase 
of  the  situation — which  remained  problematic  from 
day  to  day — as  long  as  it  did  not  touch  the  personal 
note;  any  impulsive  effort  at  that  on  his  part  glanced 
off  as  if  from  invisible  armour.  Her  own  affairs  were 
her  own.  She  evidently  regarded  it  as  only  natural 
that  he  should  be  as  deeply  concerned  in  the  fate  of 
the  unemployed  as  she,  even  if  Bert  hadn't  responded 
as  he  should,  though  every  day  she  expected  his  re- 
turn. Taunton  insisted  upon  contributing  in  small 
ways  to  the  support  of  Carina's  guests — sending 
fresh  eggs  and  tonics  for  Gladys  at  the  doctor's  order 
and  a  warm  cloak  and  hood  for  "the  boy,"  for  which 
he  gravely  counted  out  three  dollars  into  Carina's  soft 
palm — with  the  sternly  resisted  desire  to  kiss  it! — 
after  a  battle  over  that  money  first.  He  had  to  ad- 
mire the  baby  afterward  when  thus  robed.  He  had 
found  out  that  when  Carina  wanted  anything  very 
much  for  her  charges,  she  always  fought  him  desper- 
ately about  it  before  he  experienced  the  masterful 
pleasure  of  making  her  give  in.  It  seemed  as  if 
things  might  go  on  this  way  pleasantly  forever.  But 
at  the  end  of  the  fifth  week  he  had  begun  to  notice 
a  change  in  her;  she  was  thinner  and  her  fairness 


258         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

seemed  in  some  way  translucent;  her  eyes  were  ex- 
traordinarily bright,  her  swift  movements  charged 
with  some  new  quality.  She  made  absurd  jests  and 
laughed  at  little  things;  although  Gladys  had  gone 
back  to  bed  again  with  a  cold,  she  refused  to  be  dis- 
couraged. She  was  sure  Bert  would  turn  up  some 
day  to  make  a  nice  little  home  for  his  family. 

Thursday,  as  it  happened,  Georgie  Frost,  a  nice 
young  fellow  with  an  upstanding  thicket  of  black 
hair,  and  a  dimpling  smile  that  concealed  a  real  talent 
for  "business" — Taunton  envied  Georgie  his  good 
looks — held  forth  illuminatingly  at  the  lunch  hour. 

"No,  believe  me,  I'm  not  coming  any  kick  about 
my  salary  being  cut;  I  think  I'm  lucky  each  week 
I  hold  down  my  job.  Dorothy,  she's  my  sister,  you 
know,  got  fired  from  her  position  with  a  bunch  a  cou- 
ple of  weeks  ago.  Of  course  she's  got  a  home  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  anyway;  but  it's  hard  for  some 
others.  Ever  meet  Miss  Lovell — Carina  Lovell?" 

Taunton  nodded  soberly.     "Yes." 

"She's  a  perfectly  corking  girl.  Well,  Dorothy 
says  she  hasn't  a  penny.  She  has  to  give  up  the 
apartment  she's  in.  The  janitor  is  to  sell  the  furni- 
ture— not  that  she  has  much — to  pay  her  back  rent. 
Dorothy  has  been  trying  to  get  her  to  come  to  my 
mother's  for  a  while,  to  tide  over;  but  she  won't,  just 
because  she  needs  to;  she's  so  proud  it  gives  you  a 
pain.  She  used  to  go  a  lot  with  the  crowd  at  one 
time,  but  she's  been  taking  care  of  a  gang  of  the  poor 
and  sick  lately — spending  all  she  had  on  'em.  Guess 
she'll  have  to  give  that  up  now;  Dorothy  says  she 


THE  SHELL  259 

hasn't  enough  to  eat  herself.  Gee,  she's  a  queen,  that 
girl !  I'd  do  anything  for  her  myself,  only  the  trouble 
is  you  can't — she'd  stand  in  the  bread-line  first." 

"You're  all  right,  Georgie,"  said  Taunton,  with 
strange  huskiness.  "Have  another  on  me." 

Carina  losing  her  job — Carina  in  the  fearsome,  piti- 
ful ranks  of  the  Unemployed ! 

Carina  in  actual  need !  The  thought  threatened  to 
burn  with  a  raging  fire  as  the  day  went  on,  until  he 
desperately  set  himself  to  the  business  of  control. 

If  he  could  find  some  way  to  handle  the  situa- 
tion. .  .  . 

He  hurried  from  the  office,  dressed  with  unusual 
care,  and  then  dashed  over  to  the  Chalmere  without 
the  formality  of  telephoning  first,  arriving  there  a 
little  breathless  but  composed. 

To  his  sharpened  gaze,  as  Carina  opened  the  door, 
it  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  crying;  but  she  smiled 
up  at  him,  although  she  was  evidently  a  little  sur- 
prised. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Taunton!  I  didn't  expect  you 
so  soon."  Her  eyes  searched  his  face.  "Had  you 
heard  the  news  about  Bert?" 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  looked  down  at  her  with 
an  effect  of  extreme  and  courteous  gentleness  when 
he  spoke. 

"No,  I  hadn't  heard.  You  can  tell  me  about  it 
later.  I  would  like  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  if  you  will. 
I  want  you  to  put  on  your  hat  and  things  and  dine 
with  me  at  a  little  Italian  place  where  there's  a  sort 
of  garden  effect  that's  rather  pretty." 


260         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

She  drew  back  instantly.  "Oh,  I  can't.  Gladys 
is  upset;  I 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  persuaded.  "Gladys  will 
be  all  right;  the  boy  is  asleep.  Do,  please!  You  see 
it's,  er — it's,  er — my  birthday,  and  I  don't  want  to 
eat  my  dinner  alone.  You'd  be  doing  me  a  great 
kindness." 

"Oh,  well,  if  that's  it."  She  yielded  generously, 
though  still  a  little  surprised.  "I  will  be  ready  in  a 
few  moments." 

He  heard  Gladys's  querulous  voice  and  Carina's 
soothing  one.  A  couple  of  times  before,  when  she 
had  let  him  go  with  her  on  an  evening  errand,  he  had 
felt  the  invisible  wall  between  them;  it  was  odd  that 
when  they  were  off  alone  together  she  always  seemed 
farther  from  him.  He  almost  whisked  her  bodily  out 
of  the  house  when  she  appeared  in  her  dark  walking 
suit  and  the  little  black  velvet  hat  with  the  tiny  rose- 
coloured  feather;  but  they  walked  for  the  most  part 
in  silence,  until,  turning  down  a  quiet,  old-fashioned 
street,  they  entered  a  basement  in  the  rear  of  which 
the  softly  lighted,  leaf-branched,  glassed-over  garden 
was  enshrined.  It  was  a  pretty  place,  with  the  se- 
ductive air  of  space  and  emptiness  as  yet.  Taunton 
drew  a  breath  of  relief  when  seated  at  the  little  table, 
while  the  waiter  scurried  for  bread  and  olives.  He 
looked  at  his  companion  with  tender  admiration, 
as  with  her  coat  thrown  back  over  the  chair  she 
sat  leaning  forward,  in  her  white  embroidered 
waist. 


THE  SHELL  261 

"What's  this  about  Bert?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Her  face  became  alight  with  interest.  '4 

"Gladys  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning. 
He's  enlisted  in  the  United  States  Army.  It's  bad 
enough,  of  course;  but  it  might  be  worse.  He  might 
have —  When  people  can't  get  work,  there  are  so 
many  temptations." 

"How  about  Gladys?" 

"  She  doesn't  seem  to  mind  so  much ;  she's  been  so 
ill  it's  dulled  her,  I  think.  At  any  rate,  she  wrote  to 
her  stepmother  last  week,  and  she's  coming  to  take 
Gladys  and  the  baby  to  the  farm.  I  shall  hate  to 
have  them  go,  but  it  will  be  best  for  them,  I 
know;  think  of  little  Goo-Goo  growing  up  with  the 
chickens  and  all  the  green  things!  That's  fine,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  he  assented.  "  This  soup  isn't  bad, 
is  it?  You're  getting  a  little  more  colour." 

He  hesitated,  then  went  on  with  careful  diplomacy 
as  he  watched  her. 

"Well,  I  think  perhaps  their  going  may  be  a  relief 
to  you  in  some  ways.  What  I  mean  is  that  when  so 
many  people  are  losing  their  places  in  these  days 
• — it  might  happen  to  you  as  well  as  anybody  else, 
you  know !  And  then  if  you  had  a  family  depending 
on  you,  you'd  feel  it  pretty  badly.  Of  course,  when 
you  only  have  yourself  to  care  for,  it's  just  your  own 
lookout,  and  no  great  matter,  but-- — 

"Why,  that's  just  exactly  what  I  say,"  broke  in 
Carina;  her  eyes  glowed.  "People  made  such  a  fuss 
about  it  when  I  lost  my  job  a  couple  of  weeks  ago! 


262         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

They  simply  had  to  cut  down  the  force  at  the  office, 
though  they  hated  to  the  worst  way,  and  it  did  make 
me  anxious  about  Gladys  and  the  baby;  but  now,  as 
you  say,  it's  nothing!  Sooner  or  later  I'll  catch  up 
again,  and  in  the  meantime — what  is  it?  Of  course 
I  don't  need  the  apartment  any  longer." 

"  I  should  say  not ! "  agreed  Taunton.  "  You  must 
help  eat  up  this  nice  chicken;  there  are  two  more 
mushrooms  for  you." 

"Just  a  bed  anywhere  to  sleep  would  do  for  me. 
Do  you  know" — she  began  to  laugh  with  a  daring, 
mischievous  gleam  in  her  eye — "I've  often  thought 
I'd  like  to  sit  up  all  night  in  the  park;  it  would  be  such 
an  experience!" 

"All  right;  you  let  me  know  when  you  want  to, 
and  we'll  make  a  picnic  of  it,"  said  Taunton  stoutly. 
"But  you'd  better  choose  a  little  warmer  weather. 
By  the  way" — he  knitted  his  brows  slightly — "if 
you  don't  mind  my  obtruding  my  own  affairs ': 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  I  have  a  little  money,  not  much;  but  it's 
lying  idle.  These  are  times  when  one  needs  all  one's 
income." 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"And  I  was  wondering  if  you  knew  of  any  one, 
you  yourself  even,  who  would  like  to  borrow,  say, 
twenty -five,  or  even  so  small  a  sum  as  ten  dollars,  at  a 
fair  interest.  Of  course,  it's  merely  a  business  matter 
that  a  man  thinks  nothing  of." 

She  had  raised  her  head  involuntarily  as  he  spoke; 
but  his  matter-of-fact  tone  reassured  her,  as  she  said 


THE  SHELL  263 

half  absently,  "I'll  remember,  though  I  don't  think 
I'd  care  to  borrow,  myself." 

"Does  Gladys  need  any  help?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  the  stepmother  will 
pay  her  way." 

As  the  dinner  went  on  the  conversation  veered 
around  to  other  themes.  Taunton  had  her  laughing 
with  that  delightful  laugh  of  hers  by  pointing  out  a 
resemblance  between  a  fat  baby-cheeked  man  op- 
posite and  little  Goo-Goo.  And  when  they  reached 
the  apartment  again  he  came  upstairs  for  a  moment 
at  his  inspired  suggestion,  generously  acceded  to, 
to  take  a  last  look  at  little  Goo-Goo  asleep  in  his  box 
on  the  fire  escape,  all  nested  down  under  the  stars. 
But  she  lifted  him  out,  rolled  up  in  blankets  like 
a  cocoon,  and  offered  him,  plump  and  round-eyed,  to 
Taunton's  gaze. 

"  Goo-Goo  wants  you  to  hold  him  a  minute.  .  .  . 
You  ridiculous  thing,  he  can't  hurt  you!  Hold  out 
your  arms.  There!"  She  stood  off  for  a  brief  in- 
stant. "Do  you  know  what  he's  doing?  He's 
wishing  his  big  friend  luck  now,  in  his  turn." 

"Why,  that's  white  of  you,  old  fellow,"  said 
Taunton,  quite  absurdly  pleased,  before  she  snatched 
the  child  away  to  deposit  him  once  more  on  his  aerial 
perch. 

She  came  back  to  Taunton  with  outstretched  hand; 
her  upraised  eyes  showed  very  bright  as  if  from  some 
slight  moisture.  "  Good-bye.  Don't  think  I  haven't 
appreciated  all  your  kindnesses — and  to-night — I'm 
not  so  stupid  that  I  didn't  know." 


264         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Kindness  nothing!"  said  Taunton  hotly. 

"Oh,  yes!  I  knew!  I  never  quite  realized  before 
how  understanding  you  are.  All  my  other  friends — 
they  mean  it  well — but  they  batter  you  so.  I  don't 
think  it  helps  much  to  be  battered  at,  even  if  you 
deserve  it,  do  you?" 

"I  hate  it  myself,"  said  Taunton  truthfully. 
"Well," — he  still  lingered  hesitatingly;  sweet  as  she 
was,  he  began  to  feel  the  barrier  again — "and  you 
move  out  to-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

"You'll  let  me  know  your  address?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.     Not  right  away,  perhaps,  but 
of  course,  I'll  let  you  know.     I'm  looking  forward  to 
the  change — it  starts  you  off  in  new  ways.     .     . 
So,  good-night!" 

This  time  he  held  her  hand  a  second  longer.  There 
was  a  sweet  friendly  expression  in  her  eyes  before  her 
palm  slipped,  as  ever,  from  his.  As  he  looked  back 
from  the  stairs  she  was  still  by  the  open  door;  her 
smile  made  a  light  for  him.  He  went  down  the  street 
with  a  sort  of  strange,  wistful  happiness,  below  which 
lay  a  quickening  anxiety.  After  all,  she  had  given 
no  address,  she  didn't  want  to  see  him  again  for  a 
while.  As  he  entered  his  own  rooms  he  felt  re- 
proached that  they  were  so  securely  comfortable; 
how  willingly  he  would  move  out  and  leave  her  there 
if  it  were  possible!  Why  wasn't  it — why  couldn't 
you  do  a  simple  human  thing  like  that?  Carina 
would  have  found  some  way  to  make  it  possible,  if 
she  were  in  his  place!  Perhaps  Elisabeth  could} 


THE  SHELL  265 

when  she  returned  this  week.  And  Carina  didn't 
care  to  see  him  again  for  some  time!  By  an  odd 
transition  of  thought  that  discouraging  mirror  op- 
posite seemed  to  show  him  a  little  homelier  and 
heavier-looking  than  before.  He  was  a  good,  effi- 
cient friend,  perhaps,  but  no  winner  of  hearts. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  received  a  night  letter 
from  Elisabeth  saying  that  they  would  be  arriving 
in  town  that  day  convoyed  by  a  Mr.  Clarence  Thrush 
who  had  been  very  kind  to  Aunt.  Mr.  Thrush  was  a 
man  for  whom  Taunton,  in  the  masculine  phrase,  had 
no  use;  though  he  was  glad,  of  course,  of  Elisabeth's 
return.  The  letter  seemed  extraordinarily  colour- 
less, though  she  would  try  and  aid  Carina. 

He  plunged  into  the  hustling  stress  of  a  business 
morning  without  much  success,  however.  .  .  . 
Why,  under  heaven,  hadn't  he  made  Carina  tell  him 
where  she  was  going?  Why  had  he  submitted  so 
tamely  to  her  will?  The  thought  was  unbearable. 
'  At  the  lunch  hour  he  took  the  subway  up  to  the 
Chalmere.  He  feared  sickeningly  that  she  had  al- 
ready gone;  but  the  door  opened  to  his  push  on  the 
button  and  he  stood  aside  before  ascending  the  stairs, 
as  he  met  a  procession  of  men  carrying  off  her  poor 
little  goods  and  chattels  under  the  supervision  of 
the  janitor;  the  chairs  he  had  sat  on,  the  little  round 
table,  the  Japanese  screen,  the  bed  Gladys  had  oc- 
cupied, and  another  little  brass  one  that  must  have 
been  Carina's.  Taunton  felt  the  blood  mounting 
to  his  forehead — these  things  were  so  much  a  part  of 
her! 


266         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

When  the  way  was  clear  he  dashed  up  and  went  in 
at  her  still  open  door.  She  was  standing  there  in  the 
dark  little  street  suit,  her  hat  on,  looking  like  a 
flower  in  the  bare  room.  The  sunlight  poured 
through  the  window;  Goo-Goo's  sleeping  box,  the 
only  thing  left,  showed  on  the  fire  escape.  She  gave 
a  little  cry  of  surprise  as  she  saw  him. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  come  here  at  this  time?" 

"I  had  business  up-town,  and  thought  I'd  look  in. 
By  the  way,  you  forgot  to  give  me  that  address  last 
night." 

"Yes.  It — well,  it  hardly  seems  worth  while. 
Nobody  could  come  and  see  me  there;  it's  quite  de- 
cent, but  there  isn't  any  parlour.  I'm  to  share  Susy 
Steiner's  room — you  don't  know  her — for  a  few 
days;  I  hate  to  tell  people,  they  make  such  a  fuss! 
It's  very  cheap."  Something  in  his  waiting  attitude 
seemed  to  drag  the  words  from  her  against  her  will; 
she  mentioned  a  number  far  over  on  the  East  Side. 
"The  room  is  dark;  but  I  shall  be  out  all  day  hunt- 
ing a  job,  so  that  won't  matter!" 

"No,"  said  Taunton  carelessly.  He  went  over  to 
the  fire  escape,  and  bringing  in  Goo-Goo's  box, 
turned  it  bottom  up  beside  her.  "Sit  down;  you're 
tired." 

She  obeyed  with  a  sigh,  saying,  "There's  room  for 
you,  too." 

"All  right,"  he  said  happily.  They  both  sat  a 
couple  of  minutes  in  silence,  Taunton  looking  straight 
ahead  of  him.  A  faint  sound  made  him  turn  sud- 
denly. Carina's  slight  form  was  shaking  so  that 


THE  SHELL  267 

the  little  rose-coloured  feather  in  her  hat  vibrated; 
her  face  was  buried  in  her  hands. 

"You're  not  crying!"  he  exclaimed  in  horror. 

"Oh,  I  never  act  this  way,  never!  I  don't  know 
what's  got  into  me."  He  made  out  the  words  be- 
tween her  convulsive  sobs.  "Oh,  no,  no,  it  isn't 
what  you  think.  I  don't  care  where  I  live  or  what 
I  do,  not  in  the  least.  But — I  miss  them  so!" 
Her  voice  rose  uncontrollably.  "Gladys  and  the 
ba-a-aby !  I'd  taken  care  of  Goo-Goo  more  than  she 
had.  Gladys  was  so  glad  to  go — I  don't  blame  her; 
but  they  both  seemed  to  belong  to  me  so  much  and 
now  they  don't  need  me  at  all!  You  do  what  you 
can  for  people  and,  after  all,  you're  only  a  stranger. " 

"Don't  you  care,"  said  Taunton.  He  took  down 
the  hand  from  her  eyes,  and  after  a  moment's  in- 
stinctive resistance  she  let  it  lie  passively  in  his. 

"It's — it's  so  silly — isn't  it? — to  be  hurt  because 
you  don't  happen  to  be  needed  any  more."  She 
tried  convulsively,  with  the  aid  of  a  tiny  handker- 
chief, to  get  back  her  composure. 

"I  wouldn't  let  that  bother  me,"  said  Taunton; 
he  put  his  other  hand,  big  and  warm,  over  hers. 
His  voice  had  a  gentle  steadiness,  with  the  suspicion 
of  a  tremor  underneath.  "You  see,  I  need  you, 
Carina;  I  need  you  very  much."  He  could  feel  a 
surprised,  arrested  tension  in  her.  "I  think  I've 
been  in  love  with  you  ever  since  I  first  met  you, 
though  I  didn't  know  it  then;  but  I  do  now!  Oh,  I 
know  it  now!  If  you'd  only  let  me  marry  you  and 
take  you  home  to  my  little  flat " 


268         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

A  strange  dizziness  seemed  to  come  over  him  with 
the  words;  he  forced  himself  to  forge  stumblingly 
ahead  in  the  face  of  her  silence:  "I  don't  suppose 
the  prospect  is  particularly  attractive — I'm  a  homely 
sort  of  a  fellow  with  a  crooked  nose" — a  ghost  of  a 
smile  crept  around  the  corner  of  her  mouth;  she  made 
a  quick  movement  as  of  denial — "and  I'm  not 
wildly  exciting,  and  I'm  rather  poorer  than  I'd  like — 
and  I'm  not  as  young  as  I  was  ten  years  ago — I 
don't  know  that  you  could  ever  care  for  me.  .  .  . 
Well?" 

Carina  inclined  her  head  half  childishly.  "Oh, 
I'm  afraid— I  might,"  she  said.  "But " 

"But  what,  dear?"  He  tried  to  draw  her  closer, 
but  she  withstood  him. 

"How  about  Miss  Willard?" 

Taunton  felt  suddenly  struck  down  and  stunned. 

"Yes;  aren't  you  bound  to  her?" 

"No— not  exactly." 

"Oh,  but  really,  even  if  not  exactly.  I  know  a 
friend  of  hers  who  told  me.  ...  If  she  loves 
you — if  you've  given  her  the  right  to  think  you  cared 
— you  did,  didn't  you?" 

"I — perhaps." 

"Then  you  must  fulfill  your  part.  I  couldn't 
do  that  kind  of  thing,  ever — take  a  man  from  another 
woman  that  way.  You  must  go  to  her  first." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  you'll  have  to  ask  her  to  marry  you 
as  you  meant  to,  before " 

"But,  Carina!"    He  thought  hotly  of  Georgie's 


THE  SHELL  269 

words:  "She's  so  proud  she  gives  "you  a  pain." 
"I  can't;  it's  all  changed." 

"Yes,  you  can;  you'll  have  to!  You  really  are 
fond  of  her,  even  if  you  don't  think  so  now.  At  any 
rate,  I  couldn't  have  any  respect  for  you  if  you  didn't: 
if  you  weren't  honourable.  You  owe  it  to  her  to  let 
her  decide.  You  do  owe  it  to  her,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  if  you  say  so!"  said  Taunton  half  sullenly. 

"And  you  mustn't  see  me  any  more  until — 

unless A  tremor  went  over  her  as  if  she  might 

break  down  into  weeping  again,  but  she  went  on  un- 
flinchingly: "And  you  mustn't  bother  about  me 
at  all.  I'll  be  all  right!  You've  been  so  lovely  to  me." 

She  had  drawn  her  hand  from  his  as  they  both  rose. 
There  was  a  light  of  exaltation  in  her  eyes;  Taunton 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  abruptly.  "I  accept  the 
conditions,  if  I  must." 

"Good-bye." 

"No,  it's  not  good-bye.  I'll  see  you  to-night 
sometime — afterward  anyway — even  if  it's  late." 

There  was  one  thing  going  over  and  over  in  his 
brain,  as  he  walked  away,  sending  a  more  and  more 
exultant,  indescribable  thrill  through  him — his  words, 
"I  don't  suppose  you  can  ever  care  for  me,"  and  hers, 
"Oh,  I'm  afraid  I  might;  oh,  I'm  afraid — I  might!" 
They  sang  themselves  into  the  very  beatings  of  his 
heart:  "Oh,  I'm  afraid  I  might!" 

Was  it  true  that  only  six  short  weeks  ago  he  had 
been  dressing  to  go  over  and  ask  Elisabeth  to  marry 
him?  What  had  deflected  him?  Could  it  have  been 


270         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

so  slight  a  thing  as  a  shell,  brought  up  from  the  depths 
of  the  ocean  by  the  winds  and  waves  for  this  very  pur- 
pose? If  he  hadn't  knocked  that  box  over — if  this 
had  been  lost  out  of  his  life 

He  stopped  dead  short,  in  sudden  overpowering 
revolt.  Going  from  Carina  now — why?  Because 
she  had  told  him  to. 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will,"  he  said  to  himself  wrath- 
fully.  "I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will!"  He  turned  and 
dashed  back  up  the  street.  He  couldn't  get  to  her 
fast  enough  to  repudiate  that  monstrous  bargain; 
but  she  had  already  gone!  It  seemed  years  before 
evening  came,  and  he  was  free  to  seek  her  again/ 

The  narrow,  dingy,  brick  iron-railinged  house  of 
which  Carina  had  given  him  the  address  was  flanked 
with  garbage  cans.  An  old  and  unshaven  man  in 
shirt  sleeves  came  to  the  door;  he  was  indicating  the 
way  to  the  room  of  Miss  Steiner  and  her  friend,  on  the 
fourth  floor,  when  Carina  herself,  still  in  the  little 
dark  street  suit,  appeared  on  the  stairs. 

"I  was  looking  out  for  you,"  she  said  rapidly. 
"Susy  says  sometimes  we  can  see  people  in  the  din- 
ing room;  it's  terribly  funny,  isn't  it?  Come  down 
in  the  basement." 

Taunton  silently  followed  her  to  the  designated 
spot,  nearly  filled  with  a  long  table  set  for  a  break- 
fast, the  rolled  up  napkins  of  the  guests  ornamented 
with  various  strings  for  identification.  By  the  dim 
light  of  the  turned-down  gas  jet  Carina  seemed  a  pale, 
shadowy  presentment  of  her  warm  and  lovely  self, 
yet  something  in  her  eyes  made  his  heart  bound. 


THE  SHELL  271 

His  arms  were  around  her  before  he  knew.  The 
touch  of  her  was  more  exquisite  and  wonderful  than 
anything  he  could  have  imagined. 

"You've  been  to  her?"  she  breathed. 

"No,  I  haven't  been  to  her,  and  I'm  not  going  to, 
no  matter  what  you  say.  You're  going  to  do  just  as 
I  say  this  time!  You've  run  yourself  long  enough 
without  anybody  to  stop  you;  it's  idiotic,  it's 
suicidal!  Do  you  hear?  You're  going  to  do  just  as 
I  say.  I  am  the  Master  of  your  fate,  I  am  the  Cap- 
tain of  your  darling  soul  in  this  instance!  What 
—what,  dear — what?  Why — Carina!" 

The  blood  suddenly  mounted  to  his  face — she  was 
looking  at  him  as  that  lovely  bride  had  looked  at 
Grimshaw. 


CHILD  OP  THE  HEART 

1HAD  been  out  of  the  hospital  a  month,  and  had 
taken  the  children  from  St.  Mary's  Home  and 
was  settled  with  them  at  last  in  the  few  rooms 
I'd  hired  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  poor  cottage  at  the 
end  of  the  town,  before  any  consciousness  that  I'd 
had  another  baby  came  to  me;  and  then  it  was  in  a 
sudden,  odd  kind  of  way. 

I  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  my  gown  partly 
off  and  my  hair  hanging  down  over  my  shoulders — 
I  was  as  thin  as  a  rail — feasting  my  eyes  on  my  four 
little  ones  rolling  a  ball  on  the  floor;  my  big  boy, 
Louis,  who  was  eight,  and  Pauly  and  Marie  and  three 
year-old  Catherine;  no  one,  not  if  they  were  worth 
millions,  could  have  had  grander  children !  with  their 
beautiful,  clear,  rosy  skins,  their  blue  eyes  and  light 
wavy  hair,  and  their  lovely  sturdy  legs.  They  were 
all  fair  like  me;  their  father  was  French  and  dark. 
When  I  took  them  out  people's  eyes  always  followed 
them;  they  had  a  way  of  walking  like  him,  with  then- 
shoulders  thrown  back  and  their  heads  held  high,  as 
though  they  came  of  the  lords  of  the  land,  instead  of 
having  only  a  workingman  for  their  father. 

And  while  I  sat  there  now  looking  at  them,  I  found 
myself  with  my  arms  folded  as  if  I  were  holding  Some- 
thing; and  I  rocked  to  and  fro  with  that  feeling  of  a 

272 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  273 

little  round  head  on  my  bosom  .  .  .  and  it 
came  over  me  that  I  had  a  baby  and  didn't  know 
where  she  was.  And  the  thought  was  as  sharp  and 
terrible  as  a  cut  with  a  knife,  so  that  I  gasped  with 
the  pain  and  ran  out  of  the  room.  But  in  a  minute 
it  was  gone.  That  was  the  only  way  that  I  remem- 
bered, for  well  over  a  year,  at  odd  times  like,  when  I 
least  expected  it,  when  I  found  myself  rocking  and 
crooning,  with  empty  arms,  to  the  baby  that  wasn't 
there. 

But  for  the  most  part  of  the  time  I  never  thought  of 
her  at  all;  I  had  given  her  away  before  I  ever  felt 
that  she  was  name.  It  was  all  like  a  bad  dream. 

It  was  this  way,  you  see:  When  Antoine, — I  had 
married  him  at  seventeen,  out  of  the  high  school, — 
my  lovely,  brown-eyed,  merry,  warm-hearted  An- 
toine, fell  from  the  scaffold — he  was  a  builder — 
he  was  dead,  they  say,  before  he  touched  the  ground. 
But  I  never  saw  him  again  after  he  kissed  me  good-bye 
that  morning,  when  I  didn't  know  it  was  for  the  last 
time.  It  was  three  weeks  before  the  baby  was  born, 
and  I  went  sort  of  wild  with  the  longing  to  see  him 
once  more,  just  once  was  all  I'd  ask!  And  with  that 
was  the  thought,  drumming  over  and  over  in  my 
mind,  how  I  was  ever  to  earn  a  living  for  the  children 
with  yet  another  to  hamper  me.  It  didn't  seem  now 
as  if  the  one  that  was  coming  were  mine;  all  feeling 
had  been  killed  in  me. 

When  I  talked  to  the  matron  at  the  hospital  she 
was  very  kind.  She  told  me  she  knew  of  some  good 
people  who  would  be  very  glad  to  have  the  baby  and 


274         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

bring  it  up,  if  I  were  willing  to  give  it  away  entirely. 
And  it  seemed,  in  my  weakness,  as  if  a  great  weight 
had  been  taken  off  my  mind — only  I  cried,  I  didn't 
know  why.  I  was  so  ill  afterward  that  everything 
was  a  haze.  They  told  me  the  baby  was  a  little 
girl.  I  never  even  saw  her,  to  realize  it;  I  seemed,  as  I 
looked  back,  to  have  been  conscious  only  once,  prop- 
ped up  with  pillows  and  seeing  a  strange  gentleman 
with  black  eyebrows  looking  at  me.  I  heard  him 
say:  "What  eyes  she  has!" 

Then  somebody  asked:  "Are  you  still  willing  to 
give  away  the  child,  Mrs.  Blanchet?" 

And  I  said  "Yes,"  and  I  signed  a  paper  with  the 
pen  they  handed  me.  Then  I  went  down  and  out 
again  for  a  long  time. 

Antoine  had  belonged  to  a  benevolent  order,  and 
their  money  buried  him  and  kept  me  for  a  while  after 
I  got  back.  Mrs.  Hallett,  the  clergyman's  wife, 
wanted  me  to  keep  the  two  younger  children  in  the 
Home  and  send  Louis  and  Pauly  to  a  farm  in  the 
West. 

"And  in  that  way,"  she  said,  "you  will  be  free  to 
learn  to  do  something  worth  while."  She  was  one  of 
the  nicest  ladies,  and  one  of  the  least  understanding  I 
ever  knew.  She  never  seemed  to  think  with  her  heart. 

I  looked  pretty  weak  and  thin,  but  I  knew  I'd 
make  out  someway.  Why,  it  was  life  for  me  to  touch 
and  handle  the  darlings  and  bathe  and  dress  them;  it 
was  like  taking  in  life  at  my  fingers'  ends.  Miss  Lily, 
though  she  hadn't  any  children  of  her  own,  under- 
stood! 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  275 

I  went  out  for  day's  work  at  first,  sending  the 
children  to  school  and  running  back  at  lunch  time 
to  give  them  a  bite,  if  I  went  without  my  own;  but 
after  a  while  I  got  a  little  trade  at  home.  I  did  up 
curtains  and  laces  and  fine  dresses.  One  lady  told 
another  about  me. 

But  one  day,  when  my  tall,  pretty  Miss  Lily  came 
in  from  the  Settlement  to  the  room  where  I  was 
smoothing  out  a  lace  collar  in  my  fingers,  she  kept 
looking  at  me  while  she  talked,  and  all  of  a  sudden 
she  got  up  and  took  the  collar  from  me  and  held  my 
hands  close  in  hers. 

"You  poor  thing!"  she  said.  "What  is  the 
matter?  " 

For  a  moment  I  couldn't  speak,  and  then  I  said  in  a 
whisper: 

"It's  Antoine's — it's  my  husband's  birthday.  If 
I  could  only  see  him  once  more — it's  all  I'd  ask, 
ever.  .  .  .  Just  once!  You  see,  I  didn't  know 
it  was  for  the  last  time  when  he  went  out  of  the  door." 

Well,  that  very  afternoon  I  was  taking  back  a 
bundle  of  laces,  as  it  happened,  alone;  I  usually  had 
one  of  the  children  with  me — when  you  haven't  your 
husband  you  have  to  hold  on  to  a  child's  hand;  it's 
like  linking  you  here  to  him  where  he  is,  above. 

And  down  the  road  from  the  big  house  on  the  hill 
into  which  the  new  rich  people  had  just  moved,  came 
a  nurse  in  a  cap  and  a  long  white  apron,  and  a  long, 
flying-back  dark  cloak.  She  was  pushing  a  white 
wicker  baby  carriage.  There  was  an  eighteen-month 
baby  sitting  up  straight  inside,  with  pink  bunches  of 


276         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

ribbon  on  either  side  of  her  cap,  her  little  hands  beat* 
ing  the  pink,  lacy  coverlet,  and  as  she  came  nearer  I 
looked  straight  into  Antoine's  big  brown  eyes,  his 
eyes  with  the  long,  curling  black  lashes,  and  the  dark, 
curved  eyebrows  with  the  little  upward  twist  to  the 
corners;  Antoine's  dark  curls  were  on  her  forehead, 
his  dimple  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  that  little  mole 
of  his  in  front  of  her  left  ear,  and  as  she  smiled  at  me 
— for  she  smiled! — the  little  red  lips  went  up  at  one 
corner  just  as  his  had  done. 

I  knew,  and  it  was  as  if  my  heart  turned  over 
within  me;  I  knew,  past  anybody's  telling  me,  that 
this  was  my  own  child. 

I'd  promised  the  things  and  I  hurried  on  with  my 
legs  shaking,  and  the  earth  and  sky  whirling  around 
me.  ...  I  couldn't  think  at  all.  But  as  I  came 
back  over  the  hill  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage 
in  the  pine  grove  by  the  lake,  and  I  turned  off  down 
there  and  dropped  myself  on  the  other  end  of  the 
bench  on  which  the  nurse  sat.  The  baby  was  asleep 
— but  she  was  my  child. 

"That's  a  beautiful  little  girl,"  I  said.  My  voice 
sounded  strange. 

"Yes,  everybody  says  that,"  she  answered,  straight- 
ening herself  up  and  as  I  saw,  wild  to  talk  to  someone, 
the  way  all  nurses  are.  "But  it's  a  lonesome  job 
taking  care  of  her,  though  I'm  well  paid.  She's 
brought  up  modern  and  hygienic!" 

"What's  that?"  said  I,  without  taking  my  eyes 
off  that  little  sleeping  face. 

"You're  never  allowed  to  talk  to  her  or  play  with 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  277 

her,  because  it  interferes  with  her  developin*  herself; 
and  out  of  doors,  she  has  to  be  winter  and  summer, 
day  and  night;  she  sleeps  in  a  crib  on  the  porch  with 
curtains  that's  drawn  if  it  rains  or  snows,  because 
she's  delicate  like  her  mother — that's  why  I  have  her 
out  here  under  the  pines.  They  have  the  grandest 
doctors  for  her.  We  have  a  trained  nurse  now  that's 
like  a  eagle,  she  spies  on  you  so  fierce;  everything  goes 
by  her  word.  It  would  make  your  heart  ache  some- 
times to  see  the  mother  look  at  the  child  when  she's 
brought  into  the  house  and  longing  to  have  it  for  a 
while  to  herself,  and  to  kiss  it  and  fondle  it,  and  not 
daring  to." 

"Why  not?"  said  I,  turning  hot  and  cold. 

"  It's  not  hygienical,"  said  the  nurse,  going  on  like  a 
mill  stream.  "The  baby's  never  allowed  to  be  near 
other  children,  for  every  one  of  'em's  contagious  but 
her;  and  no  qhanst  do  I  get  to  see  my  own  friends  for 
fear  of  the  germs  I'll  be  bringin'  off  'em.  If  the 
head  nurse  knew  I  was  talkin'  to  you  she'd  fire  me. 
The  father,  maybe  he  has  other  notions,  but  he's  that 
crazy  about  the  mother  he'd  do  anything  in  life  to 
please  her.  The  child's  to  go  to  the  finest  schools 
and  learn  all  languages,  and  travel  in  kings'  countries, 
and  if  she's  after  having  what  they  call  a  genious 
she's  to  use  it  in  any  way  she  fancies,  op'ra  singin', 
or  play-actin',  or  marryin*  a  prince.  Every  night 
when  himself  comes  in  the  first  thing  he  says  is: 

"'And  how  is  our  little  Toinette  to-day?'  She's 
christened  Antoinette  after  her  mother." 

Antoinette!    Did  you  ever  in  your  life  hear  any- 


278        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

thing  like  that?  I  fell  to  trembling  worse  than  ever. 
My  head  was  swimming  with  all  the  talk  of  "her 
mother,"  and  "her  father" — Antoine's  child!  She 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at  me,  and  I  got  up 
and  ran  home  before  I  should  scream,  and  when  I  got 
there  I  sat  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  and  rocked  and 
rocked — I  wanted  to  hold  Antoine's  little  girl  tight 
in  my  own  arms,  to  kiss  her,  to  feel  her  mine.  Why, 
it  was  just  as  if  he  had  sent  her  to  me  from  out  of 
heaven! 

The  next  day  I  went  up  to  the  matron  of  the  hos- 
pital in  the  city,  but  I  got  nothing  from  her.  My 
baby  was  legally  the  child  of  other  parents  who  loved 
her  and  I  had  no  right  to  her  any  more.  She  wouldn't 
even  tell  me  their  name,  but  she  started  and  changed 
colour  when  I  told  her  that  I  knew  it  was  Carrington. 
Oh,  I  knew  well  they'd  never  give  her  up !  It  roused 
something  wild  and  fierce  in  me.  I  went  home  clean 
beat  out,  and  the  next  morning  I  couldn't  raise  my 
head  from  the  pillow,  and  my  big  nine-year-old  boy 
Louis  came  to  my  bedside  and  said : 

"You  just  stay  in  bed,  Mummie," — that  was  what 
they  called  me, — "and  we'll  bring  your  breakfast  in 
to  you."  And  so  they  did.  My  children  were  all  the 
handiest  little  things!  They  were  like  Antoine  that 
way!  There  wasn't  one  of  them,  not  even  little 
Catherine,  who  couldn't  fry  an  egg  or  turn  a  pan- 
cake or  make  a  piece  of  toast;  they  cooked  for  each 
other  often,  and  it  was  pretty  to  see  their  fair  little 
faces,  so  wise  and  eager,  over  the  pan. 

Well,  I  got  so  that  whenever  I  saw  the  baby  car- 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  279 

riage  going  over  the  hill  to  the  pines,  I'd  let  every- 
thing else  go  and  start  up  the  hills  to  the  pines,  my- 
self. And  every  time  I  looked  into  the  brown  eyes  of 
my  baby  my  heart  jumped  so  I  thought  Rose  must 
hear  it.  She  was  glad  to  have  me  to  talk  to  for  a  few 
minutes.  Toinette  grew  to  know  me,  and  clapped 
her  hands.  She  had  the  dearest  little  voice.  She 
would  talk  to  the  toys  in  her  lap,  the  dolly  and  the 
Teddy  Bear,  and  stretch  out  her  hands  to  the  birds 
and  the  squirrels.  But  I  never  dared  to  touch  her; 
I  didn't  know  what  I  might  do  or  say  if  I  touched 
her.  For  oh,  beautiful  as  she  was,  she  hadn't  the 
look  of  the  child  that's  warmed  and  fed  by  love;  she 
wasn't  hardy,  for  all  her  grand  nursing. 

Once  I  got  a  little  cap  of  hers  to  clean,  the  darling 
little  cap,  with  the  pressure  of  her  head  in  it.  And 
when  I  took  it  back  I  saw  Mrs.  Carrington. 

She  was  a  slender  lady,  with  all  sorts  of  lacy  things 
falling  over  her  gown;  she  had  pretty,  fady  blue  eyes, 
and  a  little  half  smile  around  her  pale  mouth,  and 
something  drooping,  yet  sweet,  about  her  as  if  she 
knew  everyone  was  going  to  be  good  to  her;  you 
couldn't  help  wanting  to  yourself.  In  one  way  I 
liked  her,  and  in  another  I  hated  her. 

I  had  been  taken  up  the  back  stairs  to  a  small  room, 
and  as  she  took  the  cap  out  of  the  paper  she  said: 

"  You  have  done  this  very  nicely.  Step  in  here  and 
I  will  give  you  some  more  of  my  baby's  things  to  do 
up!"  She  opened  a  door  as  she  spoke,  and  I  walked 
after  her  into  the  nursery. 

It  was  the  most  wonderful  room  I  had  ever  been  in; 


280         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

it  was  full  of  broad  windows,  and  everything  in  it  was 
a  satiny,  creamy  white,  the  floor,  the  furniture,  and 
half  the  walls — the  upper  part  was  all  pictures  in 
blues  and  greens  and  pinks  and  yellows.  There  were 
a  great  many  playthings,  dolls  sitting  on  chairs  or 
lying  in  beds,  and  all  sorts  of  animals. 

"It  is  a  pretty  room,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Carring- 
ton,  as  if  I  had  spoken,  and  smiling  as  if  she  were 
pleased.  "You  see  there's  no  bed;  my  baby  sleeps  on 
the  porch  outside  her  nurse's  room."  She  walked 
over  to  the  cupboard  and  took  out  a  couple  of  lace 
coats.  "I  will  give  you  these  to  do  up.  Ah,  here 
comes  my  baby  now!"  And  sure  enough,  the  little 
thing  ran  in, — Rose  and  the  trained  nurse,  the  stif- 
fest  thing!  behind  her, — turning  her  sweet  eyes  on 
me. 

"She's  a  lovely  baby,"  I  said.  My  voice  sounded 
thick  in  my  ears,  but  the  lady  didn't  notice. 

"It's  time  for  her  bath,  ma'am,"  said  the  nurse, 
"before  she  has  her  supper." 

"Oh,  dear,  it's  always  time  for  something!"  said 
Mrs.  Carrington,  smoothing  the  baby's  hair;  but  she 
didn't  kiss  her,  Rose  was  right  there.  "  So  many  rules 
and  regulations  for  my  darling!" 

As  we  left  the  room  I  looked  back  to  see  a  door 
opened  to  a  little  white  porcelain  bath  beyond,  and  a 
white  weigh-scales,  and  what  not,  all  fit  for  a  little 
princess. 

"You  have  children?"  she  asked. 

"Five,"  I  said. 

"Five,"  she  repeated,  but  not  as  if  she  really  heard 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  281 

me.  "You  must  have  your  hands  full.  I  have  only 
one,  you  see."  She  smiled  proudly,  yet  wistfully,  too, 
and  my  heart  suddenly  ached  for  her.  She  took  out 
her  purse  and  paid  me  the  quarter  for  the  cap.  She 
was  so  sweet  and  gentle,  it  puzzled  me  what  it  was  I 
missed  in  her. 

Her  husband  came  in  just  before  I  went;  he  was  a 
tall  man,  with  heavy  black  eyebrows  and  a  straight 
mouth.  When  he  stopped  still  he  seemed  to  stand 
very  quiet,  without  an  eyelash  moving,  and  I  knew 
that  he  was  the  man  I  had  seen  in  the  hospital. 

I  heard  him  say,  "Who  is  that?"  And  his  wife's 
voice  answered:  "It's  Mrs.  Blanchet  from  the 
village.  She's  doing  up  some  things  for  Toinette." 

I  turned  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  see  him  smiling 
at  his  wife,  and  he  looked  quite  different.  But  if  I 
had  needed  to  know  any  more,  I  knew  it  then. 

And,  oh,  my  child  was  well  off;  she  had  all  the  care 
that  money  could  buy,  there  was  no  lack  there — 
though  there  was  a  lack.  .  .  .  But  if  I  couldn't 
have  her  openly  for  my  own,  I  could  at  least  feast 
my  eyes  on  her  every  day,  and  for  once,  if  for  once 
only,  I  would  have  her  secretly  for  my  own — I  had  a 
plan. 

When  I  got  home,  I  can't  tell  you  how  poor  and 
bare  and  dark  my  rooms  looked,  no  place  for  her! 
The  children  ran  to  meet  me,  helter-skelter,  their  hair 
flying,  and  I  kissed  them  and  listened  to  their  talk, 
and  got  the  supper  and  put  them  to  bed. 

And  when  they  were  fast  asleep  I  went  to  the  cup- 
board and  took  out  fresh  white  covers  for  my  bureau 


282         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

and  the  table,  and  I  got  all  the  candles  I  had  and 
stuck  them  in  candlesticks  or  anything  I  could  find, 
and  put  them  on  the  mantel  and  on  the  table  below 
it,  and  I  hunted  some  flowers  out  of  the  garden,  tall, 
pearly  white  and  golden  flag  lilies,  and  set  them  in  be- 
tween the  candles.  'Twas  somehow  to  me  as  if  my 
little  dark  bedroom  was  to  be  made  like  the  High 
Altar.  And  when  all  the  village  was  still,  and  the 
lights  mostly  out,  only  for  the  rising  moon,  I  lighted 
my  candles  and  went  my  way  silently  up  the  hill,  a 
dark  shawl  over  me.  The  house  was  built  on  a  slope 
and  the  porch  where  the  baby  slept,  that  was  the 
second  story  from  the  front,  was  not  far  above  the 
ground  in  the  back.  With  a  bench  and  a  box  from 
the  area  way  I  managed  to  get  to  the  top  of  the 
brickwork  and  then  climbed  over  the  stone  railing,  and 
pushed  aside  the  screen.  Oh,  my  God,  there  lay  my 
little  Antoinette,  her  face  white  like  a  flower  toward 
the  moon,  the  dark  curls  brushing  her  cheek. 

I  slipped  my  arms  under  her — she  was  in  a  sort  of 
white  woolly  sleeping  bag — and  lifted  her  to  me,  so 
gradually  that  she  didn't  know  that  she  was  being 
moved.  And  still  holding  her  close  on  one  arm  I  man- 
aged slowly  to  edge  myself  over  the  railing  again 
and  reached  the  ground,  and  went  swiftly,  yet  holding 
her  steadily,  down  the  hill.  But  of  a  sudden  she 
stirred  and  opened  her  eyes  and  began  to  whimper. 
The  voice  of  her!  I  was  mad  with  joy.  And  the 
feel  of  her!  "You  darling!  You  darling!"  I 
whispered.  "You're  with  Mummie  now,  you're 
with  Mummie And  when  she  heard  my  voice 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  283 

she  stopped  crying  and  put  her  little  hand  to  touch 
my  face.  And  so  we  came  into  my  altar  room,  all 
set  with  the  candles  and  the  pearl  and  golden  lilies, 
and  my  baby  raised  her  head  and  stretched  out  her 
arms  and  said,  "Pretty,  pretty!"  Oh,  the  darling, 
the  darling!  And  I  took  off  all  the  things  she  was 
bundled  in.  And  then  I  went  and  waked  the  sleep- 
ing children  and  said : 

"Come  and  see  what  Mummie  has  for  you! " 

So  they  came  stumbling  out  one  by  one,  Louis  and 
Pauly  and  Marie  and  Catherine,  the  hair  falling  over 
their  sleepy  eyes,  and  then  they  all  screamed  at  once 
and  ran  forward. 

There  on  the  table,  in  the  midst  of  the  flowers,  with 
the  altar  lights  behind  her,  stood  my  baby  in  her  little 
white  shirt,  with  her  lovely  bare  arms  and  neck,  her 
bare  legs  and  dimpled  feet,  her  head  with  the  brown 
curls  thrown  back,  and  her  big  brown  eyes  shining 
solemnly;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  children's  faces  she 
began  to  laugh,  her  red  lips  parting  to  show  the  tiny 
white  teeth. 

"Oh,  Mummie,  is  it  an  angel?  "  cried  Marie. 

And  I  said,  "  Yes,  she's  come  down  to  play  with 
you." 

And  then  I  set  her  on  the  floor  and  they  all  danced 
around  her,  she  laughing  with  delight  and  plucking  at 
them,  and  each  one  had  to  touch  and  hold  her,  her 
little  pink  toes  curling  up  when  they  kissed  them. 
Oh,  she  knew  her  brothers  and  sisters  that  she  was 
born  to,  and  that  I  had  cheated  her  of!  When  I 
looked  in  the  glass  I  didn't  know  myself,  my  cheeks 


284         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

were  so  red.  When  I  packed  them  off  to  bed  again 
I  said: 

"Mind  you,  there's  not  a  word  to  pass  your  lips  to 
any  living  soul  about  our  little  angel.  Remember 
that,  Louis,  and  Marie,  and  Catherine,  and  Paul." 

Then  I  put  out  all  the  lights  but  one  and  took  my 
baby  into  my  own  narrow  bed  with  me.  I  kissed  her 
from  her  curls  to  her  little  warm  feet,  and  she  went 
to  sleep,  sighing  and  cooing  with  content,  as  I  kissed 
her — she  was  mine,  mine,  mine! 

I  lay  awake  while  she  slept  so  as  not  to  lose  a  min- 
ute of  her.  I  can't  tell  you  of  my  joy  and  my  pain. 
God  lets  love  hurt  us  so  much,  doesn't  He !  But  be- 
fore it  was  light, — and  oh,  the  dawn  comes  so  early 
in  the  spring! — I  was  up  the  hill  with  her,  still  sleep- 
ing, in  my  arms,  and  put  her  in  the  crib  on  the  porch 
outside  of  the  room  where  the  trained  nurse  slept — 
I'd  outwitted  her  for  all  her  training! 

But  after  that,  if  I'd  thought  I'd  be  satisfied  I  was 
mistaken;  I  wanted  my  baby  more  than  ever.  I  kept 
watching  to  see  Rose  wheeling  the  carriage  over  to 
the  pines,  and  then  I'd  leave  everything  and  run. 

How  is  it  that  you  can't  keep  what  you're  thinking 
out  of  the  world?  My  children  never  told  about  that 
night  when  I  stole  their  little  sister  for  them;  small  as 
they  were  they  never  told.  But  one  evening  Louis 
began  to  cry,  sobbing,  with  his  face  in  his  hands 
turned  away  from  me,  and  though  I  asked  him  why, 
he  wouldn't  speak.  Children  are  so  much  wiser  than 
we.  Sometimes  I  was  afraid  of  Louis.  It  isn't  what 
you  do  or  say,  it's  your  thoughts  that  you  can't 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  285 

guard,  that  slip  away  from  you,  and  find  their  way 
into  the  minds  of  others.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
people  began  to  look  strangely  at  me. 

One  day  I  met  Mr.  Carrington  in  the  town,  and 
Rose  didn't  come  to  the  pines  the  next  day  or  the 
next,  or  the  next.  The  day  after  that,  Miss  Lily 
came  in  for  a  China  crepe  shawl  of  her  mother's. 
She'd  brought  a  chocolate  apiece  for  each  of  the  chil- 
dren— sweet  thing,  the  mother's  heart  of  her! — and 
they'd  thanked  her  prettily,  they  had  nice  manners, 
and  she  said,  looking  at  Marie :  "  Do  you  know,  Mrs. 
Blanchet,  Mrs.  Carrington's  little  girl  always  reminds 
me  of  your  children,  though  her  colouring  is  so  differ- 
ent! She  has  the  same  way  of  holding  her  head,  and 
there's  something  in  her  smile.  She's  such  a  dear 
little  thing;  I'll  miss  her  when  they  go." 

"When  they  go!"  I  repeated,  staring  at  her. 

"Yes,  they  sail  on  Saturday.  Mr.  Carrington  has 
business  in  France,  so  they're  going  there  to  live. 
Mrs.  Blanchet,  you  really  must  not  work  so  hard,  you 
look  terribly!" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,  Miss  Lily,"  I  said. 

Going  away,  going  to  take  my  child  away,  and  to 
France,  her  father's  country! 

That  night  I  went  up  the  hill,  it  was  black  dark 
with  no  moon,  and  I  crept  over  the  railing  of  the 
porch  and  stole  my  baby  once  more. 

So  I  brought  her  home  to  have  her  in  my  arms  for 
the  few  hours  that  I  might — and  what  I  would  have 
done  or  not  have  done  the  night  decided  for  me. 

It  rained.     The  heavens  opened,  and  the  waters 


286         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

fell  down  in  torrents;  the  thunder  crashed,  the  light- 
ning flared;  the  drops  rattled  on  the  roof  with  a  noise 
so  loud  and  continuous  you  couldn't  hear  yourself 
speak,  and  the  wild  wind  hurled  them  at  the  window 
panes  so  that  they  were  like  to  break;  did  one  storm 
seem  as  if  it  would  die  down,  another  followed  it. 
The  children  were  frightened  and  came  running  out 
of  their  beds  to  me — little  Toinette  cried;  I  had  to 
walk  the  floor  with  her.  I  couldn't  have  taken  her 
back  again  if  I  would.  And  I  was  frightened  at 
what  I'd  done — and  afraid  of  Mr.  Carrington — but 
I  knew  I'd  have  done  it  all  over  again. 

It  was  seven  o'clock,  with  the  children  up  and  the 
rain  stopping  at  last,  that  Mrs.  Barns,  a  woman  who 
lived  above  me,  put  her  head  in  at  my  door,  and  says : 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?  The  Carringtons' 
baby  has  been  stolen !  She  disappeared  in  that  awful 
storm  last  night.  Ain't  it  terrible!" 

"Stolen!"  said  I,  with  a  quick  glance  behind  me. 
The  children  were  all  in  the  inner  room.  "Have 
they — any  clue?" 

"I  don't  know.  Mr.  Carrington  was  away  last 
night,  but  they've  sent  for  him.  Mrs.  Carrington  is 
wild." 

It  was  all  only  what  I  expected  to  hear,  and  yet — 
there's  such  a  strangeness  in  it  when  bad  things  come 
true! 

But  I  went  back  to  the  children  when  she  left,  with 
the  baby  running  around  among  them  on  the  floor 
and  laughing,  her  little  head  thrown  back  and 
her  eyes,  Antoine's  big  brown  eyes,  shining.  She  ate 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  287 

all  her  breakfast  of  bread  and  milk  with  the  rest. 
She  had  a  look  about  her  she'd  never  had  before,  the 
look  loved  children  have.  The  others  had  their 
breakfast  and  went  to  school — only  Louis  looked  at 
me  strangely.  And  after  I  bathed  the  darling  hi  the 
green  tin  foot -tub,  and  dressed  her  in  some  old  things 
of  Catherine's,  I  was  waiting  all  the  time  for  the  mo- 
ment to  come  when  she'd  be  taken  from  me. 

And  it  came!  When  I  heard  that  knock  on  the 
front  door  I  opened  it  to  Mr.  Carrington. 

He  was  alone.  He  strode  in,  his  face  black  and 
stern,  and  when  he  saw  the  child  in  my  arms  he  put 
out  his  and  pulled  her  from  me,  though  I  tried  to  hold 
on  to  her.  I  screamed,  and  he  said  sternly:  "Why 
not?  She's  mine.  Oh,  I  knew  where  to  look  for  her 
all  right!  I've  been  watching  you  ever  since  I 
recognized  you  at  the  house.  Now  I  want  to  tell 
you,  you've  got  to  stop  this  game.  You  won't  make 
anything  by  it." 

"Make  anything  by  it?"  What  did  he  mean? 
"But  she  belongs  to  me!"  I  stammered. 

"She  belongs  to  my  wife  and  myself,"  he  said. 
"You  can  be  sent  to  prison  for  stealing  her.  Don't 
you  know  that?  If  we  weren't  sailing  to-morrow 
morning  I'd  have  you  put  where  you  couldn't  do  any 
more  harm.  Your  child!  What  kind  of  a  mother 
were  you  to  give  her  away?  What  kind  of  a  mother 
are  you  now  to  want  to  take  her  from  all  the  comforts 
and  luxuries  of  life,  with  everything  to  make  her  good 
and  happy  when  she's  growing  up,  and  drag  her 
down  instead  to" — he  glanced  around — "this!  If 


288         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

you  were  to  die,  what's  to  become  of  her?  Do  you 
want  her  to  go  to  the  poorhouse?  You're  a  wicked, 
selfish  woman,  and  when  you  talk  of  mothers — you 
don't  care  whether  you  break  her  true  mother's  heart 
or  not!" 

He  saw  her  sleeping  bag  and  picked  it  up  from  a 
chair  and  wrapped  it  around  her  all  wrong,  like  a 
man  does,  and  strode  out  the  door  with  her  in  his 
arms,  and  off  up  the  hill,  me  hurrying  along  behind 
him,  wringing  my  hands  as  I  went.  I  saw  people 
staring,  but  I  took  no  heed.  Once  he  looked  back  to 
see  me  following;  the  baby  was  laughing  at  me  over 
his  shoulder.  I  went  into  the  house  after  him  to 
where  Mrs.  Carrington  was  sitting  in  her  drooping 
laces,  and  she  gave  a  cry  when  she  saw  the  little  thing 
in  her  husband's  arms  and  ran  and  snatched  the  child 
to  her. 

"Oh,  Hubert!  I  knew  you'd  find  her,  I  knew 

Why She  stopped,  for  she  saw  me,  my  hair  in 

wisps  against  my  face,  my  lips  twisting,  and  my  hands 
twisting,  too,  against  my  apron. 

"What  eyes  she  has!"  she  said,  drawing  back  as  if 
in  terror.  She  turned  questioningly  to  her  husband, 
and  he  nodded. 

"'Twas  as  I  thought,"  he  said.  "This  is  the 
woman.  You'd  better  go,"  he  ordered,  not  roughly, 
but  I  knew  I  had  to  obey.  Yet  first.  .  .  . 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "it's  only  a  word  I  have  to  speak. 
Your  husband's  been  telling  me  how  cruel  I  was  to 
give  my  child  away,  and  how  cruel  I  am  to  want  her 
now,  cruel  to  you,  and  to  her.  I'd  tell  you  what  I 


CHILD  OF  THE  HEART  289 

went  through  before  she  came,  if  I  could  make  you 
understand  all  my  trouble — if  I  could  make  any  one 
understand  what  it  is  to  have  your  husband  die  and 
leave  you!  And  it's  true  all  Mr.  Carrington  says — 
I'm  selfish  to  want  her — yes — if  she  were  my  baby 
alone  I'd  give  her  up  to  you  again,  yes,  I  would!— 
But  she's  her  dead  father's  child,  too!  She's  a  part  of 
him,  come  back  from  heaven  to  me.  There's  some-i 
thing  in  me  that's  stronger  than  I — God  put  it  there. 
And  I  can't  let  her  go;  I  can't,  I  can't,  I  can't!" 

I  had  fallen  on  my  knees  with  sobbing.  "  You  may 
take  her  away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  but  you  can't 
take  her  from  my  heart's  longing,  and  it  will  come  be- 
tween you  and  her  till  I  die!" 

I  heard  the  lady's  voice  saying,  "Oh,  Hubert!"  as 
if  faint-like,  and  somebody  picked  me  up,  and  I 
found  myself  at  home  more  dead  than  living. 

Late  that  evening  a  carriage  stopped  by  my  gate, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carrington  got  out.  He  had  my 
baby  in  his  arms. 

His  wife  was  clinging  to  him,  very  white,  but  cold 
and  proud-looking.  "We  have  come  to  give  you 
back  the  child,"  he  said  in  that  stern  voice  of  his. 
He  put  up  his  hand  imperiously.  "Don't  speak, 
please.  My  wife  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds. 
My  wife  feels  that  knowing  of  Toinette's  parents 
makes  a  great  difference  in  her  own  feeling  of  posses- 
sion— the  thought  of  another  living  mother  is  un- 
pleasant to  her.  And  she  is  very  tender-hearted." 
His  voice  broke  a  little;  that  the  man  loved  his  wife 


290         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

was  plain  to  be  seen !  "  To  think  of  your  longing  for 
the  child  would  take  all  her  own  pleasure  and  comfort 
away.  So  we  give  Toinette  back  to  you. — Wait! 
One  thing  is  to  be  clearly  understood:  One  such 
trial  is  enough.  We  will  never  take  the  child  back 
under  any  circumstances.  You  are  never  to  make 
any  appeal  to  us!"  His  voice  wasn't  as  hard  as  his 
words.  He  was  looking  at  his  wife. 

"Never!"  I  whispered,  but  I  only  looked  at  the 
lady;  our  eyes  hung  on  each  other  for  a  moment.  I 
tried  to  say,  "May  the  Lord  bless  you,"  and  she  came 
close  to  me,  and  I  put  up  my  lips,  and  we  kissed  each 
other,  as  if  we  might  have  been  sisters,  each  so  sorry 
for  the  other. 

Then  they  left  me  with  my  darling  child,  Antoine's 
and  mine.  .  .  .  "Mummie,  Mummie!"  she  cried, 
and  patted  my  face  with  her  little  hand. 

But  wouldn't  you  think  it  strange?  That  other 
woman  loved  the  child,  yet  she  never  sent  one  of  the 
baby's  little  clothes  down  to  her  when  they  left. 
Christmas  or  a  birthday,  since,  never  anything  has 
come.  Kind  she  was,  but  I  knew  from  the  first  that 
she  hadn't  the  real  heart  of  a  mother! 

Sometimes  I'm  frightened  that  I  won't  be  able  to 
work  as  hard  as  I  ought.  Louis  says: 

"Mother,  I'm  going  to  begin  and  earn  money  soon 
for  my  little  angel  sister,"  for  I'd  told  him  all.  But 
oh,  will  she  judge  me  when  she  grows  up,  and  finds 
what  I've  kept  from  her? 


HER  JOB 

MRS.  IRVING,  in  her  white  gown,  slender  and 
gray-eyed,  sitting  behind  the  coffee  urn  fac- 
ing her  husband  with  the  newspaper,  felt 
unusually  languid  and  weak  this  morning.  She 
often  thought  she  could  stand  the  day  better  if  it 
did  not  begin  with  breakfast,  or  if,  paradoxically 
speaking,  it  came  after  luncheon,  when  one  was  more 
physically  braced  for  discouragement  and  the  de- 
volving cares  of  the  household. 

Even  if  the  service  hadn't  all  depended  on  one 
maid,  it  was  Mr.  Irving's  rule,  harrowingly  never 
carried  out,  that  the  household  should  be  assembled 
at  one  and  the  same  moment  at  the  matin  meal.  In 
the  home  in  which  he  himself  had  been  brought  up 
it  was  a  cult  that  all  virtue  depended  on  early  rising 
and  being  prompt  at  breakfast.  The  little  ten-year- 
old  Cecilia,  as  was  often  fondly  noted  by  Cousin 
Lizzie,  was  a  real  Irving  in  her  morning  wakeful- 
ness;  white-haired  Cousin  Lizzie,  fresh  in  her  laven- 
der gingham,  was  an  Irving,  too;  but  the  eldest  son 
and  Lily  and  Jack,  as  well  as  their  mother,  took  after 
the  Vanes — delightful  people,  but  who  hadn't  the 
advantage  of  having  been  brought  up  as  Irvings. 

Mrs.  Irving,  as  she  waited  nervously  for  the  de- 
linquents— while  she  tried  to  listen  to  what  her  hus- 

291 


292         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

band  read  from  the  paper — was,  as  usual,  divided 
between  sympathy  for  them  and  for  him.  He  was 
so  good  that  it  was  a  shame  not  to  try  to  please  him — 
and  just  when  poor  father  was  going  through  so  much 
with  his  business ! 

"Oh,  there's  Jack  now!"  she  said. 

"I  couldn't  get  dressed  sooner  because  Vane 
wouldn't  let  me  have  my  shoes,"  complained  Jack, 
a  curly-haired  boy  of  fourteen.  "I  wish  you  would 
make  Vane  stop;  he — 

"Be  quiet,  dear,  your  father  is  reading,"  mur- 
mured the  mother. 

She  motioned  to  Ellen  to  take  away  the  toast  by 
Cousin  Lizzie's  plate  and  bring  a  piece  that  wasn't 
burned  on  the  edge,  and  held  up  a  warning  finger  to 
the  pretty,  slender  Lily,  a  girl  of  twenty,  who  twined 
her  arm  around  her  father's  neck  and  kissed  him 
lightly  as  she  passed,  already  hatted  and  cloaked  for  the 
train,  while  he  reached  up  a  hand  and  fondly  patted 
her  cheek,  though  he  went  on  with  the  paragraph. 

Seven  people  had  been  rescued  from  a  spectacular 
fire,  in  a  building  which  Mr.  Irving  had  once  oc- 
cupied, through  the  continued  efforts  of  one  special 
fireman  who  had  himself  succumbed  afterward. 
Cousin  Lizzie  made  little  murmurs  of  interest  during 
the  recital,  with  exclamations  of  horror  at  the  end; 
everyone  said  how  brave  the  poor  fireman  was  to 
stay  at  his  post. 

"Well,  that  was  his  job,"  said  Mr.  Irving  hardily. 
He  folded  the  paper.  "Jack,  don't  make  such  dis- 
gusting noises  when  you  eat.  Where  is  Vane,  Maria? 


HER  JOB  293 

Why  can't  that  boy  ever  get  down  to  breakfast  on 
time?" 

"Here  he  is,"  she  said  nervously,  with  an  appealing 
glance  at  her  oldest  son.  Vane  was  twenty-two,  dark, 
handsome,  forceful  looking,  and  at  the  moment  with 
an  enigmatic  expression  as  he  met  his  mother's  gaze. 

"Good  morning."  His  salutation  embraced  the 
table.  "I  don't  want  any  breakfast."  His  hand 
waved  off  a  protest.  "No,  Mother!  I  don't  want 
any;  I'll  get  something  to  eat  in  town.  I've  got  to 
stop  at  the  tailor's  for  my  coat  on  the  way  to  the 
station.  Good-bye!"  He  had  kissed  her  and  was 
already  gone. 

"Mother,  Ellen  has  given  me  cold  mutton  sand- 
wiches for  my  lunch  when  she  knows  I  hate  cold  mut- 
ton," clamoured  Cecilia.  "  Mother,  I  can't  eat  cold 
mutton;  Mother,  I  can't  eat  cold  mutton — Mother,  I 
can't!" 

"Hush,  Cecilia!  I'll  see  that  you  have  something 
else,"  said  the  mother.  Her  eyes  roved  anxiously 
to  the  husband  as  he  rose.  "What  was  the  matter 
with  your  eggs?  You  haven't  touched  them." 

"Oh,  nothing,  only  they  were  too  hard,"  he  an- 
swered. He  was  a  large,  fine-looking  man  in  his 
gray  business  suit;  his  somewhat  clouded  face  took 
on  a  kindly  expression  as  he  kissed  her  good-bye  in  his 
turn.  "Now  remember  and  take  care  of  yourself 
to-day,  dear.  Coming  in  with  me,  Lily  ?  " 

"Yes,  Father."  She  gathered  up  her  music  roll- 
Lily  studied  both  vocally  and  instrumentally  at  the 
conservatory. 


294         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"I  don't  know  what  time  I'll  be  home;  don't  wait 
dinner  for  me.  For  goodness'  sake,  Mother,  don't 
look  as  if  you  expected  something  dreadful!  I'm 
only  going  to  the  tea-room  dance  with  Mrs.  Hart  well 
and  the  crowd.  Cecilia,  will  you  see  if  I  dropped  my 
gloves  on  the  stairs?  Oh,  there  they  are.  Good-bye, 
Mother." 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  mother  once  more,  rising  her- 
self from  a  half-eaten  breakfast  to  make  the  sand- 
wiches for  Cecilia,  and  find  Jack's  arithmetic  in  the 
struggle  to  get  him  off  for  school,  before  going  back 
to  clear  off  the  breakfast  table.  Her  heart  had  sunk 
at  Lily's  words;  it  was  not  only  that  she  seemed  to 
have  no  thought  for  her  home  in  the  exigencies  of  music 
lessons  and  the  fox  trot,  but  there  was  that  haunting 
fear — the  tea-room  dance  was  all  right,  of  course,  but 
if  she  was  meeting  Rupert  Yarde  this  way,  why, 
then 

"You  go  and  sit  by  the  window  with  the  paper; 
it's  such  a  pretty  morning!  I'll  clear  the  things 
away,"  said  Cousin  Lizzie  kindly.  "Farnham  was 
remarking  before  you  were  down,  dear,  that  you  did 
entirely  too  much — you  must  remember  what  the 
doctor  said — and  you  know  how  glad  I  always  am  to 
help.  Dear  me,  how  careless  Ellen  is!  Here  is 
another  cup  nicked.  She  should  be  spoken  to." 

"Oh,  dear!  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Irving  help- 
lessly. 

"But  that  wasn't  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about, 
Maria."  Cousin  Lizzie  stood  still  with  a  trayful  of 
spoons  and  forks  in  her  hands.  Her  blue  eyes  looked 


HER  JOB  295 

straight  before  her — Cousin  Lizzie  was  white-haired 
and  elderly,  but  her  eyes  were  still  very  blue;  her 
voice  trembled.  "It's  about  Lily.  You  know, 
Maria,  how  I  have  loved  that  child — my  godchild 
and  named  Elizabeth  after  me!  When  she  was  a 
little  thing  she  used  to  climb  up  in  my  arms  and  hug 
me  tight  and  say:  'I  love  you,  sweet  Lizzie!'  Of 
course  I  was  away  at  Cora's  for  a  good  many  years, 
but  I  never  forgot  Lily's  birthday  or  Christmas. 

But  ever  since  I  came  here,  three  months  ago 

Cousin  Lizzie's  voice  broke  into  a  sob;  she  sat  down 
suddenly.  "Just  because  I  opened  another  letter  of 
hers  yesterday  afternoon,  addressed  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Irving — and  I  was  wondering  before  I  opened  it  what 
gentleman  could  be  writing  to  me! — she  was — 
Well,  I  never  heard  such  language  from  any  one! 
She  was  ungoverned.  And  the  letter  was  nothing  at 
all,  just  'Will  be  there,'  and  signed  *R/  Nothing 
would  suit  her  but  that  I  was  a  prying  criminal.  She 
insinuated  that  I  wanted  to  read  her  letters;  she 
wished  that  she  had  been  named  for  anybody  else; 
she- 
Mrs.  Irving  made  an  ejaculation  of  distress.  "Lily 
shouldn't  have  spoken  like  that;  she  is  very  quick- 
tempered, like  her  father,  but  it  is  soon  over;  not  that 
I  am  excusing  her  at  all,  Cousin  Lizzie.  You  know 
young  girls  do  mind  some  things  so  much.  Perhaps 
if,  when  letters  come  in  a  handwriting  you  don't 

recognize,  you  would  wait  till  Lily  came  home 

"That  is  what  I  always  do.     No  one  can  be  more 
particular  than  I,"  said  Cousin  Lizzie  with  dignity. 


296         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Is  there  anything  more  you  would  like  to  have  me 
do  here,  Maria?" 

"Thank  you,  nothing  more,"  said  Mrs.  Irving  with 
outward  calm,  but  deep  inward  resentment.  She 
escaped  upward. 

Why  did  everyone  come  to  her  with  all  the  dis- 
agreeable happenings?  This  was  a  fine  beginning 
to  the  day,  indeed;  she  felt  weak  before  it  had  well 
started,  with  those  other  anxieties  already  gnawing 
at  her — Farnham's  troubles,  so  vitally  a  part  of  living, 
and,  what  struck  deeper  yet,  this  affair  of  Lily's. 
Mrs.  Irving  always  arranged  her  own  room;  she 
stopped  now,  as  always  when  she  dusted,  to  look 
fondly  at  the  photographs  of  the  children  when  they 
were  little.  Lily  had  always  been  popular,  but 
when  Rann  March  suddenly  appeared  on  the  scene 
last  winter  the  two  had  apparently  fallen  in  love  at 
sight.  It  couldn't  "come  to  anything"  for  a  long 
time,  of  course;  but  no  one  could  help  liking  young 
March;  he  was  not  especially  good-looking,  but  just 
the  kind  you  felt  was  nice  clear  through — with  a 
football  record  behind  him,  and  clean,  forthright 
ways. 

And  then  for  the  last  two  months  he  had  stopped 
coming  to  the  house  entirely!  George  Huff  and 
Leonard  Cray,  negligible  youths,  were  the  favoured 
ones  for  a  few  weeks,  and  since  then  it  had  been 
Rupert  Yarde  exclusively.  Rupert  was  some- 
what older;  handsome,  if  you  liked  the  style,  rather 
delicate,  and  with  little  effeminate  ways;  he  had 
money.  Mrs.  Irving  disliked  him  intensely;  she 


HER  JOB  297 

thought  him  vain.  If  he  was  meeting  Lily  oftener 
than  she  mentioned 

If  only  Cousin  Lizzie  hadn't  told  her  about  that 
letter!  Mrs.  Irving  knew  that  it  would  be  on  her 
mind  all  day,  and  she  really  ought  not  to  have  to 
worry;  anything  that  distressed  her  took  just  so 
much  strength  out  of  her.  And  if  Farnham's  "deal" 
didn't  go  through  to-day,  what  would  become  of 
them? 

A  ring  at  the  telephone  called  her  from  her  agonized 
reflections. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Irving?  This  is  Mrs  Bush.  How 
are  you? — Well,  really,  I'm  used  up  before  the  day 
begins,  there's  so  much  on  one.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Elsie  this  morning — I  thought  you'd  like  to  know; 
they've  been  having  the  most  wretched  time  South; 
all  the  children  have  been  ill,  and  Alec  cut  his  foot; 
they  were  afraid  of  blood  poisoning,  but  it's  all  right 
now.  She  feels  quite  hurt  at  not  hearing  from  you 

since  they  left,  but  I  told  her Yes,  yes,  I  see,  of 

course.  Well,  to  change  the  subject,  I  promised 
Mrs.  Tevis — the  Tevises  are  the  new  people  next 
door,  my  dear — that  I'd  speak  to  you  about  Jack, 
for  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  allow  it  if  you  knew — 
allow  him,  I  mean,  to  use  that  sling  shot  on  his  way 
to  school.  He  shoots  at  their  chickens —  Oh, 
yes,  I've  seen  him!  He  killed  a  hen  yesterday.  Mrs. 
Tevis — she's  a  very  nervous  little  woman — went  all 
to  pieces,  thinking  that  he  might  have  hit  the  baby; 
they  had  to  send  for  the  doctor.  Mr.  Tevis  says 
sling  shots  are  against  the  law.  Yes — I  knew  you'd 


298         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

see  about  it,  dear.  You  are  always  so  calm  about 
everything!  I  often  wish  I  had  your  temperament. 
Oh,  Hilda  has  just  come  in.  She  wants  to  know  if 
Lily  is  coming  out  by  train  to-night  or  in  Rupert's 
motor — Hilda  wants  to  meet  her.  Oh,  I  supposed 
you  knew.  Good-bye ! " 

Mrs.  Irving  sat  down  in  the  big  chair  by  the  win- 
dow, quivering.  The  sky  was  very  blue;  the  hills 
had  taken  on  a  soft,  animated  haze;  the  scarlet- 
leaved  maple  opposite  gleamed  like  a  jewelled  tree 
in  the  sunlight.  It  all  seemed  to  belong  to  a  differ- 
ent country  from  the  one  in  which  she  lived. 

"Maria!" 

She  turned  wearily.     "Yes,  Cousin  Lizzie." 

"That  washerwoman  has  hung  Cecilia's  new  blue 
cambric  right  in  the  sun,  and  it's  all  fading  out;  I 
thought  you'd  want  to  speak  about  it.  I'll  take 
those  books  back  to  the  library  for  Lily,  if  you  like; 
the  walk  is  too  long  for  you.  They  are  weeks  over- 
due. Let  me  see;  there  will  be  thirty -eight  cents 
on  this  one  and  forty  on  the  other;  it's  positively 
sinful." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  agreed  the  mother  painfully. 

She  counted  out  the  money  from  her  pocketbook. 
and,  after  going  down  to  interview  the  laundress,  she 
lay  back  once  more  in  the  comfortable  chair,  her 
pretty,  languid  hands  crossed  in  her  lapr  her  face, 
with  its  soft,  light  hair  and  gentle  gray  eyes,  expres- 
sionless. She  felt  racked  in  spirit  to  a  degree  that 
affected  her  physically,  as  she  knew  too  well!  The 
doctor  had  said  more  than  the  family  knew.  How 


HER  JOB  299 

could  she  ever  get  well  with  all  this  to  stand?  There 
was  no  one  to  take  her  place.  And  just  when  she 
couldn't  stand  anything — when  she  oughtn't  to  be 
called  upon  to  stand  another  thing!  And  now  she 
would  have  to  nerve  herself  to  confront  Jack 

When  Jack  finally  came  in  to  luncheon  he  was 
unusually  quiet. 

She  spoke  with  control:  "Jack." 

"Yes,  Mother."  He  stopped  in  the  doorway,  cap 
in  hand,  his  eyes  turned  away. 

"  Look  at  me !  Look  at  me,  I  say !  Give  me  your 
sling  shot." 

"It's  broken." 

"Very  well;  let  it  stay  broken  then.  I  didn't 
think  you  were  a  cruel  boy,  Jack,  shooting  at  chickens 
— and  killing  them.  You'll  have  to  go  to  Mrs. 

TWie " 

J  C  Via 

"That  old  hen  of  hers  was  dead  when  I  shot  at  it — 
if  that's  what  you  mean!"  Jack's  voice  had  a  hard, 
choked  sound.  "I'm  going  upstairs;  I  don't  want 
any  lunch." 

"Not  want  any  lunch!  What's  the  matter? 
Why,  Jack!"  He  had  suddenly  knelt  down  on  the 
floor,  plunging  his  head  in  her  lap. 

"I'm  not — cruel.  Rover" — Rover  was  the  black 
dog  at  the  corner — "was  run  over  just  now  by  Ru- 
pert Yarde's  car,  Mother!  I  saw  Rover — I  saw  his 
legs —  A  gasping  description  of  the  tragedy 
poured  forth. 

Her  arms  around  the  boy,  Mrs.  Irving  tried  warmly 
to  comfort.  "I  wouldn't  think  of  that  part,  you 


300         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED" 

know,  dear;  I'd  only  think  that  it  doesn't  hurt  him 
now,  and  what  a  dear,  lovely  dog  he  was,  and  how 
happy  you  made  him  when  you  brought  him  bones. 
I  know  you're  not  cruel !  Didn't  you  say  you  needed 
a  new  tennis  racket?" 

"Ye-es." 

"Well,  get  it  then,"  she  said  largely,  on  the 
strength  of  a  hoarded  five-dollar  bill.  "Now run 
upstairs  and  wash  your  face  and  hands.  Here  come 
Cecilia  and  Cousin  Lizzie.  What  is  the  matter 
now?" 

Well  might  she  ask!  Cecilia's  pink-and-white 
frock,  as  well  as  one  cheek  and  her  light  curls,  was 
plastered  with  mud;  her  mouth  was  smeared  to  her 
chin  with  blood. 

"Now  don't  be  frightened,"  said  Cousin  Lizzie 
volubly;  she  herself  looked  white.  "It  is  really 
nothing.  What  is  a  tooth  compared  with  a  life?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  exclaimed  the  mother. 

"You  can  imagine  how  I  felt  when  I  saw  that  dear 
child  in  front  of  the  trolley  and  the  motorman  clang- 
ing his  bell  and  everyone  shrieking  at  her,  and  she 
so  absent-minded  that  she  never  knew  a  thing !  And 
a  boy  grabbed  her,  just  as  she  slipped  and  fell  against 
the  wheel  of  the  Tevises'  baby  carriage — that  stupid 
nurse  had  it  right  in  the  way! — and  knocked  her 
upper  front  tooth  right  out." 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  said  Mrs.  Irving  again. 

"And  the  postman — he  was  just  passing — picked 
the  tooth  up  and  clapped  it  right  back  into  place  and 
told  her  to  keep  pressing  it  up  and  to  take  her  straight 


HER  JOB  301 

to  the  dentist  on  the  way  back,  but  I  felt  so  shaky, 
dear,  that 

"  Get  Cousin  Lizzie  the  ammonia  from  my  dressing 
table,  Jack,"  said  Mrs.  Irving  hastily.  Heaven  knew 
she  felt  shaky,  too.  A  front  tooth — and  a  little  girl! 
Why  hadn't  Cousin  Lizzie  got  it  attended  to  at 
once?  It  might  be — oh,  horrible  thought! — too  late 
now. 

When  she  returned  from  the  dentist's  she  was  still 
tense  but  partly  reassured  in  this  particular  stress. 
The  dentist  said  the  tooth  would  probably  be  all 
right.  Cousin  Lizzie  had  gone  to  bed  in  a  darkened 
room  with  a  headache,  but  there  was  no  rest  for  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  Ellen  came  up  to  say  that 
the  line  had  broken  with  the  last  of  the  wet  clothes 
on  it;  the  laundress  refused  to  wash  them  out  again, 
and  now  what  was  to  be  done  about  it?  What  in- 
deed! 

Every  few  minutes  some  additional  small  harassing 
need  for  decision  or  guidance  evolved,  bringing  her, 
underher  quiet  and  dignified  demeanour,  an  absolutely 
despairing  sense  of  its  all  being  really  too  much  for 
her;  she  must  not  have  all  this  on  her  mind.  She 
wished  Farnham  hadn't  told  her  how  dreadfully 
much  depended  on  to-day's  transactions;  if  that 
deal  didn't  go  through —  What  use  for  her  to 
take  her  medicine  so  carefully,  and  sit  on  the  porch 
with  her  feet  up? 

When  the  children  came  later  to  entertain  Cecilia, 
even  then — with  everything  else  on  her  mind — she 
had  constantly  to  keep  them  from  disturbing  Cousin 


302         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Lizzie.  And  as  to  Lily There  was  no  use  talking 

about  it,  the  mother's  instinctive  perception  forced 
on  her  the  fact,  of  which  she  had  tried  to  keep  un- 
conscious, that  there  was  a  mystery  somewhere. 
Lily's  tacit  avoidance  of  her  for  the  last  month  was 
prctof  that  there  was  something  that  the  girl  didn't 
want  to  tell;  every  time  that  Mrs.  Irving's  eyes  had 
rested  on  her  beautiful  child  with  anxious  question- 
ing the  beautiful  child  had  turned  away,  her  mouth 
set  enigmatically. 

Of  course  Lily  felt  that  her  mother  wasn't  in 
sympathy  with  her  about  Rupert.  It  made  the 
mother  feel  sick  all  over  every  time  she  thought  of 
Lily's  marrying  him.  Was  it  possible — could  it  be 
possible — that  she  would  marry  him  without  telling 
any  one  first?  Suppose  she  was  going  to  marry  him 
to-day !  The  letter  that  Cousin  Lizzie  had  opened — 
suppose  that  was  what  it  had  meant?  Mrs.  Irving 
sat  up  straight  with  a  hand  on  her  strangely  sinking 
heart;  it  seemed  to  be  stopping  its  beats.  No,  no, 
that  couldn't  be;  Lily  would  never  stab  her  like 
that — never!  Still Well,  if  Lily  married  Ru- 
pert, she  herself  would  die.  Lily  would  feel  badly 
then! 

She  turned  suddenly,  with  a  start  of  awakening, 
at  a  voice  behind  her: 

"You  look  so  comfortable  there  I  hate  to  disturb 
you.  Don't  get  up!  I'll  bring  a  chair  over."  The 
speaker,  a  slight  woman  in  black,  with  a  modest  hat, 
and  a  small,  gold  cross  pendent  to  her  waist  by  a 
black  ribbon,  had  come  up  the  steps  at  the  side.  She 


HER  JOB  303 

had  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes  and  a  very  sweet, 
almost  roguish  smile. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Rayne!  I'm  glad  to  see  you;  you 
haven't  been  here  in  ages." 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  glad  I  hadn't,"  said  the 
other,  taking  out  a  little  book  with  a  pencil  attached. 
"I  always  come  to  ask  you  for  something  for  my  Girls' 
Lodging  Hall;  and  there  are  so  many  needs  now!" 

"I  can  give  you  only  a  dollar,"  said  Mrs.  Irving 
languidly,  taking  her  pocketbook  from  the  bag  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair  and  proffering  to  her  visitor  a 
solitary,  crumpled  bill  which  she  could  ill  spare. 

"A  dollar  is  a  good  deal,"  said  Mrs.  Rayne  gladly. 
"Thank  you  ever  so  much!  I  haven't  collected 
much  this  afternoon.  Some  people  were  out,  and 
most  feel  there  are  so  many  expenses  in  the  autumn. 
Business  is  so  dull,  too. " 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"I  see  the  Harkness  children  are  here,  poor  little 
things!  I  stopped  at  the  house  just  now — such  a 
beautiful  house,  isn't  it? — and  Miss  Wickes,  one  of 
the  trained  nurses,  came  down  for  a  minute  to  say 
that  Mrs.  Harkness  wasn't  any  better;  it's  her 
nerves,  you  know.  Neither  her  husband  nor  the 
children  have  seen  her  for  more  than  five  minutes  a 
day  for  six  weeks.  Miss  Wickes  says  she  is  so  sorry 
for  him;  he  seems  so  discouraged." 

"She  is  fortunate  to  be  able  to  take  a  rest.  You 
can't  do  anything  without  your  health,"  said  Mrs. 
Irving  deeply. 

The  visitor  looked  straight  before   her;  for  the 


304         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

moment  she  said  nothing.  She  had  naturally  an 
impulsive  spirit  that  hurled  her,  unless  she  was  care- 
ful, into  intemperate  speech.  There  were,  heaven 
knew,  enough  cases  of  disabling  illness!  But  the 
phrase  "You  can't  do  anything  without  your  health" 
always  moved  her  hotly  to  combat;  she  knew  of  so 
many  people  who  did  do  so  very  much  without  it! 
Why,  most  of  the  great  work  of  the  world  had  been 
accomplished  by  men  and  women  handicapped  by 
physical  weakness  or  recurring  ailment.  Even  she 
herself,  if  you  came  down  to  that,  in  her  own  little 
daily  round But  she  swiftly  quenched  the  per- 
sonal thought  with  its  rising  antagonism. 

"I  suppose  very  few  women  out  of  their  teens  really 
feel  well  all  the  time,"  she  hazarded  soberly.  She 
turned  her  kind  gaze  on  her  hostess.  "And  how 
are  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Irving  hardily,  but 
with  mist  over  the  eyes  that  met  the  others.  "Of 
course  the  care  of  a  house  and  family  does  wear  on 
one's  nerves;  sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I'd  go  wild  with 
all  the  demands  on  me.  The  problems  are  so  never- 
ending!  Very  often  I  think  that  if  everything  went 
smoothly  for  just  one  day  even,  I  wouldn't  know  how 
to  take  it." 

"Yes,  it  is  trying,"  said  Mrs.  Rayne  with  sym- 
pathy; if  people  felt  that  they  needed  pity,  then  they 
did  need  it.  Her  own  husband  and  child  had  died 
so  long  ago  that  nobody  remembered  those  dearest 
ones  but  herself.  The  people  who  unloaded  their 
troubles  on  her  never  seemed  to  think  that  she  was 


HER  JOB  305 

alone  and  poor,  and  lived  in  one  little  room  and 
worked,  rain  or  shine,  for  her  living — but  then,  of 
course,  she  didn't  want  any  pity!  Before  she  left 
she  told  an  absurd  story  about  one  of  her  girls  to 
Mrs.  Irving;  they  both  laughed  over  it. 

Mrs.  Irving  sat  gazing  after  her  as  she  went  down 
the  street;  something  about  Mrs.  Rayne  always 
soothed  and  cheered. 

A  shriek  brought  Mrs.  Irving  staggering  to  her 
feet.  She  was  sure  that  Cecilia  had  knocked  out 
that  tooth  once  more,  but  it  proved  to  be  only  Jack, 
completely  spoiling  all  the  doll-playing  fun  of  the 
little  girls.  He  had  to  be  corralled  and  reproved 
and  brought  in  sullenly  to  study  his  lessons. 

When  Cousin  Lizzie  came  down,  still  upset  from 
shock,  she  had  a  harrowing  letter,  brought  by  the 
last  mail,  from  her  niece  Gertrude;  the  doctor  said 
Gertrude  needed  change.  Mrs.  Irving  felt  that  she 
could  not  offer  the  opportunity,  yet  she  tried  wearily 
to  be  helpful  in  some  way,  with  that  queer  sinking 
feeling  growing  in  her. 

If  Lily  only  would  come  home,  and  she  could  look 
into  the  girl's  face  and  see  that  everything  was  still 
the  same! 

But  it  was  Vane  who  came  first,  her  tall,  dark- 
eyed  eldest.  She  could  see  him  swinging  along  far 
down  the  street,  getting  nearer  and  nearer,  and  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  he  was  growing  to  look  much 
older;  he  had  a  masterful  air.  He  greeted  her 
gravely  as  he  came  in,  and  Cousin  Lizzie  to  the  same 
effect,  and  went  straight  on  upstairs. 


306         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

In  a  few  moments  the  mother — anxious,  she  knew 
not  why — went  up,  too;  she  had  reached  her  own 
room  when  he  called  her. 

"Mother,  will  you  come  in  here  a  moment?  Sit 
down;  you  look  tired."  He  placed  the  chair  for  her, 
and  closed  the  door  before  he  came  to  stand  in  front 

of  her.  "I've  got  something  I  want  to  say By 

the  way,  if  you  think  Jack's  studying  his  lessons 
when  you  send  him  upstairs  you're  much  mistaken;  he 
reads  'The  Three  Midshipmen'  instead.  If  he  takes 
my  best  neckties,  as  he's  been  doing,  he'll  get  a  good 
thrashing." 

"Oh,  Vane!" 

"But  that  isn't  what  I  want  to  speak  about; 
there's  something  else."  He  squared  himself,  his 
eyes  looking  resolutely  down  at  her,  his  jaws  set, 
though  his  voice  was  even.  "I  can't  stand  this 
breakfast  racket  any  more,  Mother;  it  puts  me  all 
on  edge  for  the  day.  If  I  choose  to  stay  in  bed  half 
an  hour  longer — sometimes  I  don't  get  to  sleep  very 
early — and  go  off  without  my  breakfast,  it's  got  to  be 
my  own  lookout." 

"But,  Vane!  When  you  don't  consider  your 
father's  wisjies " 

"Dad  doesn't  mind  half  as  much  as  you  think  he 
does — not  half  so  much  as  you  do,  Mother.  He  knows 
I'm  old  enough  to  know  what  I  want  to  do.  You 
don't  realize  it,  Mother,  but  you  get  in  such  a  state 
that  it  upsets  everyone;  you  look  so  agonized!  If 
you're  going  to  mind  every  little  thing  like  that,  I'll 
have  to  go  and  live  somewhere  else."  He  smiled, 


HER  JOB  307 

but  his  tone  was  serious  enough.  "Honest,  I 
will." 

"Oh,  it  will  be  all  right  after  this,"  said  the  mother. 
She  rose  unsteadily.  "I've  got  to  leave  you  now." 

She  walked  back  to  her  own  room  and  stood  leaning 
for  a  moment  against  the  dressing  table.  Every- 
thing had  gone  black  before  her.  This  was  the  worst; 
Jack  deceiving  her,  the  brothers  quarrelling,  Vane 
wanting  to  leave 

Her  heart  beat  strangely,  and  she  went,  half 
blindly,  for  her  medicine;  her  very  fingertips  seemed 
to  be  dizzy,  but  she  managed  to  pour  it  out  carefully, 
groping  her  way  afterward  to  sit  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  pushing  aside  a  newspaper. 

The  room  became  wrapped  in  gathering  dusk; 
the  outlines  of  the  furniture  were  fading  out;  it  was 
like  being  in  a  tomb.  She  felt  quite  collectedly— 
in  spite  of  this  queer  goneness,  as  if  life  were  slowly 
oozing  away — that  she  could  stand  no  more  sapping 
anxieties,  no  more  nerve-racking  grievances,  little 
or  big.  Those  around  her  would  have  to  be  made  to 
understand  that  they  must  keep  their  difficulties  to 
themselves,  they  must  get  along  the  best  they  could 
without  her  help;  they  must  be  made  to  understand 
that  any  further  strain  of  this  kind  now,  would — not 
figuratively,  but  literally — kill  her. 

She  rose  after  awhile  with  effort,  lit  the  gas,  and  sat 
down  limply  once  more,  her  eyes  falling  unconsciously 
on  the  newspaper  beside  her.  Yes,  that  was  what 
Farnham  had  been  reading  aloud  this  morning.  The 
words  said  then  came  back  to  her: 


308         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"He  was  a  brave  man  to  stay  at  his  post." 

"That  was  his  job." 

No  deed  of  courage  ends  with  the  perpetrator  of 
it;  known  or  unknown,  it  swells  a  great  Living  Force. 
Some  strong  electric  current  went  through  Mrs. 
Irving's  veins;  she  sat  up  straight,  with  a  strangely 
awakened  sensation.  She  had  naturally  a  certain 
downright  faculty  of  facing  things  fairly;  it  held  her 
now.  Suppose  being  an  effectual  wife  and  mother  did 
kill  her — what  of  that?  It  was  her  job,  there  was 
no  getting  around  that — the  job  that  she  had  herself 
undertaken — to  be  a  wife  and  mother  and  house- ( 
holder.  That  was  her  job.  If  it  killed  her  it  would 
be  at  her  post! 

She  thought  suddenly  with  a  pitying  horror  of 
that  poor  woman  down  the  street,  who  now  could  see 
neither  husband  nor  children,  her  nerves  and  will- 
power gone  beyond  control,  lapped  around  with 
every  comfort  into  her  writhing  self,  with  a  nullifica- 
tion of  every  joy,  as  well  as  care.  To  be  like  that, 
to  have  everything  kept  from  her — not  to  be  the 
centre  of  the  home;  not  to  know  what  her  dearest  ones 
were  wanting  or  thinking  or  feeling;  nay,  to  have 
others  know  when  she  didn't — why,  that  in  itself 
would  be  a  living  death!  As  long  as  she  was  alive 
here  on  earth  must  her  spirit  and  her  heart  be  pas- 
sionately alive  to  those  she  loved.  A  torrent  of  love 
for  them  seemed  to  overflow  her,  touchingly  eager 
and  yearning  and  hopeful.  Why  this  high  note  of 
tragedy  that  she  had  been  sustaining?  Suppose 
Farnham  had  bad  news  to-night,  poor  fellow — well, 


HER  JOB  309 

that  was  a  lot  better  than  his  being  ill!  Suppose 
Lily — she  winced  then! — wanted  to  marry  Rupert; 
there  was  really  nothing  wrong  about  him,  so  far  as 
the  mother  knew;  it  was  only  her  own  dislike  and 
prejudice.  If  Lily  were  glad,  she  would  have  to  be! 
As  for  Cousin  Lizzie  and  Lily — she  would  manage 
to  get  the  mail  herself  before  Cousin  Lizzie  sorted  it, 
and  put  one  source  of  woe  out  of  the  way. 

She  found  herself  unaccountably  smiling.  Strange, 
that  the  square  facing  of  one*s  dread,  the  steady  ac- 
ceptance— if  it  had  to  be,  though  it  wasn't  going  to 
be! — should  bring  her  a  sense  of  odd  and  deep 
elation.  She  was  still  sitting  there  smiling  when  her 
husband  came  in;  he  did  not  see  her  until  she  turned; 
he  looked  very  worn  and  tired. 

"Why,  Maria!"  he  said  gently.  He  came  and  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  beside  her.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  he  eyed  her  queerly.  "How  sweet  you 
look  to-night!" 

"Did  the  deal  go  through?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  but  we'll  pull  out  after  a 
while  some  way;  this  European  war  has  set  every- 
thing back.  I  tell  you,  I  felt  pretty  discouraged  as  I 
came  along  to-night,  wondering  how  we  were  going 
to  manage,  but  when  I  saw  you  here  smiling,  some- 
thing came  over  me There  are  lots  of  worse 

things  in  the  world  than  poverty,  aren't  there,  old 
sweetheart?" 

"Oh,  lots!"  she  whispered. 

"Only  you  mustn't  do  too  much;  that's  the  only 
thing  that  bothers  me;  you're  not  strong  enough; 


310         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

you've  got  to  be  careful.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
do  without  Ellen,  I  really  don't;  but " 

"Well,  we  won't  think  of  that  until  we've  had 
some  dinner,"  said  his  wife  fondly.  "Have  you  seen 
Cecilia?"  She  began  recounting  the  events  of  the 
day. 

Lily  was  late;  but  at  any  rate  she  came!  The  din- 
ner took  on  an  unexpected  air  of  festivity,  no  one 
exactly  knew  why;  everyone  seemed  unusually  kind 
and  cheerful.  Vane  got  a  footstool  for  his  mother 
with  a  playfully  admiring  remark  about  her  frivolous 
shoes;  Cecilia  jumped  up  twice  to  kiss  her. 

Jack  said:  "You  look  awful  pretty  to-night, 
Mother!"  It  came  out  that  he  was  going  to  a  ball 
game  with  Vane  on  the  morrow. 

Cousin  Lizzie  promised  to  make  a  delightful 
dessert,  a  real  Irving  delicacy  of  which  Lily  was  par- 
ticularly fond. 

Only  Lily  sat  without  speaking,  her  eyes  watchful. 
But  at  any  rate  she  was  there — how  foolish  and  un- 
necessary all  the  mother's  vain  imaginings ! 

But  after  dinner,  when  she  was  alone  again,  lying 
down  in  her  own  room,  Lily  appeared.  She  drew  a 
chair  up  beside  the  bed,  her  face  filled  with  new  ani- 
mation. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  came  over  us  to-night!" 
she  burst  out.  "Mother,  we've  all  been  deciding 
something  just  now:  You've  got  to  have  your  break- 
fast in  bed  after  this,  for  a  while." 

"No,  no!  Please  not!"  besought  the  mother. 
"I  want  to  be  down  with  the  rest  of  you.  I " 


HER  JOB  311 

"Well,  you're  not  going  to — for  a  while,  anyway; 
that's  settled!  Father  was  telling  us  about  things. 
I'm  going  to  stop  the  music  lessons  till  after  Christ- 
mas, my  voice  needs  a  rest  anyway;  and  Cousin 
Lizzie  and  I  are  going  to  do  the  work  while  she's  here. 
She  says  it  drives  her  crazy  sitting  around  doing 
nothing.  I  know  I  can  learn  to  cook  a  thousand 
times  more  economically  than  Ellen.  And  Jack  and 
Cecilia  will  help  wash  dishes.  Vane  says  you've 
got  to  be  taken  care  of,  Mother — he  is  going  to  buy 
some  of  the  things  for  us  cheaper  and  bring  them  out 
from  town.  Father  is  so  pleased;  I  think  he  has 
been  through  a  lot!  Now,  Mother  dear,  I  know  all 
that  you're  going  to  say;  you're  just  the  most  self- 
willed  person  I  ever  knew,  but  this  time  you've  got 
to  think  of  us.  You've  just  got  to  do  as  we  say  and 
be  careful;  we  couldn't,  we  just  couldn't  do  without 
you!" 

"Why,  Lily!" 

"And,  Mother" — Lily's  face  suddenly  flushed  and 
her  eyes  shone — "there's  something  else — I  really 
wanted  to  speak  about  it  before,  but  you  looked  so 
distressed  and  worried  all  the  time — you  don't  know 
how  hard  you  take  things,  Mother;  we  never  know 
what  you  are  going  to  get  worked  up  over  next — I 
meant  to  tell  you  anyway  next  week;  but  there's 
something  about  you  to-night,  Mother — you  look 
so  sweet.  It's — Rupert  and— 

"Yes,  dearest,"  said  the  Mother  steadily. 

"Well,  I've  been  going  with  him  so  much  lately 
because  I  wanted  to  see — he  was  perfectly  fine  about 


312         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

it;  he  was  willing  to  take  it  at  that — you  don't  like 

him,  Mother,  but  he  really  is  nice! You  see,  I 

wasn't  sure  whether  I  really  loved  Rann,  and  we 
agreed  not  to  meet  at  all,  or  even  write,  for  two 
months,  and  if  either  of  us  liked  any  one  else  better — 
perhaps  it  was  silly  of  me,  but  I  wanted  it  that  way 

And  oh,  Mother,  the  time  is  up  Saturday !    That 

was  his  note  Cousin  Lizzie  opened,  and  it's  been  such 
ages!  But  I  know  now — oh,  I  know  now — that  it 
never  could  be  any  one  but  Rann.  I  can't  even  say 

it  to  you,  Mother,  but "     Her  arms  were  tight 

around  the  mother,  her  face  hidden. 

"Why,  my  own  darling  child!"  said  Mrs.  Irving. 


TWO  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  STORIES 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER 

AS  TOLD  TO 

M.S.C. 

I  HAVE  been  called  an  embezzler — and  to  be  an 
embezzler  has,  on  the  face  of  it,  an  ugly  sound; 
sympathy  is  alienated  at  the  start.     Yet  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  most  men  step,  on  occasion,  over  the 
barrier  that  separates  them  from  dishonesty;  they 
may  scramble  back  at  once,  but  at  some  time  in 
their  lives  they  do  step  over.     ...     I  haven't 
found  myself,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  very  differ- 
ent from  the  men  who  will  read  this.     Mine  hasn't 
been  one  of  the  large  pyrotechnical  careers. 

As  a  boy,  in  the  sixties,  I  lived  in  a  small  town — it 
would  be  a  suburb  in  these  days — near  the  city.  I 
was  an  only  child,  and  my  mother  was  very  proud 
of  my  looks — I  was  what  is  called  a  "pretty  boy"- 
and  of  my  polite  manners.  At  home  I  was  always 
quiet  and  obedient,  and  greeted  visitors,  as  I  often 
overheard  them  say,  "like  a  little  gentleman."  But 
my  character  was,  even  at  that  early  age,  contradic- 
tory. My  mother,  who  was  delicate,  disliked  the 
noise  of  children  around  the  place,  and  in  the  houses 
and  yards  of  other  boys,  where  I  mostly  spent  my 
time  out  of  school,  I  was  both  louder  and  rougher  than 

315 


316         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

at  home,  and  I  was  also  more  ingenious  in  evading 
the  law  than  my  playmates.  I  was  one  with  hah*  a 
dozen  others  who  set  fire  to  an  unused  barn,  and 
nearly  burned  down  a  whole  row  of  houses,  the  wind 
rising  unduly  high;  and  I  secretly  indulged  in  the 
practice  of  throwing  stones  at  windows,  at  horses, 
and  the  persons  of  such  children  as  I  could  attack 
in  this  way  from  behind  a  tree.  I  once,  to  my  fright, 
nearly  killed  a  boy  by  stretching  a  wire  across  the 
sidewalk  in  the  path  of  his  bicycle,  which  he  had  re- 
fused to  let  me  ride — they  were  high  bicycles  in  those 
days — but  I  was  seldom  found  out. 

When  I  was  haled  up  before  my  mother,  as  some- 
times happened  in  spite  of  all  the  wariness  in  which 
I  had  become  an  adept,  she,  the  gentlest  of  women, 
at  once  hotly  took  my  side,  and  was  furious  at  the 
accuser,  giving  her  own  version  of  the  story  after- 
ward to  my  father,  who  always  agreed  with  her. 

He  was  both  a  pompous  and  indolent  man,  who 
disliked  to  take  any  more  responsibility  than  he  had 
to.  If  the  complaint  was  made  to  him  personally, 
he  received  it  with  dignified  surprise  and  displeasure; 
I  was  called  hi  and  my  invariable  disclaimer  offered 
in  lofty  and  conclusive  rebuttal  of  all  evidence.  Noth- 
ing was  ever  probed  into,  confession  never  demanded 
of  me,  even  with  half  a  dozen  witnesses  against  me — 
though  the  gaps  and  rents  in  my  defense  must  some- 
tunes  have  made  themselves  apparent  to  all  but  the 
most  wilfully  blind  of  parents.  Their  own  self-love 
was  wounded  in  any  criticism  of  their  son. 

I  found  it  almost  impossible,  when  passing  a  child 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER      317 

who  was  much  smaller  than  I,  not  to  slyly  pinch  or 
kick  it.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  cruel,  it  was  a  teas- 
ing propensity,  such  as  most  boys  have.  But  when 
the  bigger  boys  laid  hold  of  me  that  way  sometimes, 
I  would  howl  and  shriek  for  mercy,  sneaking  out  of 
their  way  afterward. 

There  was  one,  Jake  Patton  by  name,  only  a  year 
or  two  older  than  I — I  was  then  fourteen — but  very 
much  larger  and  heavier.  He  used  to  lay  in  wait 
for  me  when  I  went  to  school,  and  jumping  on  me 
pull  me  down  on  the  ground,  rub  my  face  unmerci- 
fully in  the  ice  and  snow,  and  then  tweak  my  head 
back  and  stuff  the  snow  in  my  mouth  and  nostrils, 
releasing  me  only  after  I  was  half  blind  and  stagger- 
ing with  rage  and  fear.  I  did  not  dare  to  complain 
to  my  parents,  knowing  that  I  would  get  it  ten  times 
worse  from  my  enemy  afterward  if  they  interfered. 
But  one  day  my  teacher,  a  pretty,  spirited  little  thing, 
met  me  coming  in  at  the  door,  my  arm  over  my 
eyes,  sobbing,  and  she  got  the  whole  truth  from  me. 

"But  why  don't  you  try  to  stop  him?"  she  asked, 
her  eyes  flashing.  She  had  drawn  me  into  an  empty 
classroom.  "I'd  stop  it!  Why  don't  you  fight 
him?" 

"Ob,  I  wish  I  could!"  I  groaned,  "but  I  can't; 
he's  twice  as  strong  as  I  am." 

"I'd  give  him  something  to  remember,  even  if  I 
couldn't  beat  him.  I'd  fight!  "  she  said.  Her  red  lips 
trembled,  but  her  dark  eyes  were  dauntless.  Some- 
how she  looked  to  me  perfectly  beautiful.  .  .  . 
Then  she  laughed,  and  said  repentantly: 


318        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

"Goodness,  I  oughtn't  to  talk  this  way  to  you!'1 

But  the  words  she  said  kept  repeating  themselves 
over  to  me  like  a  strain  of  music:  "I'd  fight!"  Little 
and  slight  as  that  girl-teacher  was,  she  wouldn't  have 
crawled  out  of  anything;  she'd  stand  up  and  face  odds. 
It  was  the  glimpse  of  another  world. 

For  two  days  Jake  was  not  at  his  post;  then  I 
saw  him,  too  late  to  turn  back.  My  heart  sank,  my 
flesh  crawled,  I  was  more  afraid  than  I  had  ever  been. 
But  as  he  called  out: 

"Come  on,  Ern,  you  sneak,  and  take  what  I'm  going 
to  give  you!"  I  saw  that  he  had  even  easier 
prey,  a  little  chubby  boy  of  six  or  seven,  whom  I 
liked,  and  whose  ears  I  had  pulled  and  whose  fat 
legs  I  had  kicked  myself,  more  than  once,  smiling 
at  his  squeals.  Jake  was  no  ruffian,  but  when  little 
Tommy  rose  from  the  snow  in  which  he  had  been 
rolled,  and  ran  off  with  distorted  face,  crying,  while 
Jake  laughed,  something  unforeseen,  something 
strangely  different  and  greater  than  I,  rose  in  me — - 
I  have  said  that  my  nature  is  contradictory.  I  for- 
got that  I  was  small  and  weak,  and  I  hurled  myself  on 
him  furiously,  shouting,  "Don't  you  ever  touch 
Tommy  again!"  We  grappled;  he  hit  me,  but  I 
hit  him;  we  went  at  it  hot  and  heavy.  I  felt  a 
strength  that  is  a  joy  to  remember,  the  strength  of 
fighting  in  the  open,  and  for  a  good  cause.  In  the 
very  midst  of  it,  however,  we  heard  a  horrified 
"Stop — Stop!  Boys,  stop  this  wicked  fighting  at 
once!"  Deacon  Gulger  pulled  us  apart,  and  gave  us 
a  severe  lecture. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       319 

But  Jake  never  bullied  me  again  after  this.  He 
said:  "Why,  old  chap,  I  never  supposed  you  had  it 
in  you!"  and  we  became  friends. 

For  a  little  while  after  that  I  felt  in  me  a  new  self- 
respect,  the  knowledge  of  the  joy  of  facing  the 
worst 

I  have  sometimes  thought  since,  oddly  enough, 
that  if  I  could  have  fought  that  fight  out  some  higher 
spirit  in  me  might  have  been  set  free.  .  .  . 

One  other  incident  stands  out  in  this  part  of  my 
history.  At  a  crowded  church  fair  I  picked  up  a 
ten-dollar  bill  in  the  lobby  and  stuffed  it  in  my 
pocket,  filled  with  exhilaration  and  excitement  at  my 
luck.  Shortly  afterward  I  heard  that  the  pretty 
young  school-teacher,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  had 
lost  a  ten-dollar  bill. 

I  never  could  clearly  explain  to  myself  why  I 
didn't  return  the  money  at  once — something  in  my 
excitement  seemed  to  hold  me  back  from  action.  I 
listened  to  her  laments;  I  watched  the  search  of  the 
floor  by  others;  I  even  joined  in  it  eagerly,  in  a  vague 
idea  that  it  might  not  be  her  bill  which  I  had  found. 
A  strange  inertia  began  to  steal  over  me;  there  ap- 
peared to  be  a  panel  slid  across  my  mind  which  hid 
the  reasoning  side  of  it  from  use;  the  money  in  my 
pocket  seemed  to  be  really  mine,  and  to  have  no  con- 
nection with  the  girl's  loss. 

But  that  night  I  awoke  suddenly  in  the  dark  as  if 
a  cold  hand  had  been  laid  on  me — that  panel  in  my 
mind  had  been  drawn  back  and  a  troop  of  horrible, 
accusing  thoughts  poured  forth  and  terrified  me.  I 


320         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

had  deliberately  stolen  that  bill — pretty  Miss 
Nannie's  tearful  eyes  wrenched  my  soul.  I  trembled 
and  wept,  myself,  with  horror  at  my  deed,  and  vowed 
that  I  would  give  her  back  the  money  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning.  Yet  I  did  not.  When  morning 
came,  the  terrifying  impressions  of  the  night  had 
vanished  entirely.  The  money  was  mine — I  had 
found  it;  I  saw  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  make 
restitution  now  without  having  unpleasant  questions 
asked.  I  was  unusually  good  in  school  that  day, 
and  won  Miss  Nannie's  grateful  praise. 

I  speak  of  this  incident,  because,  though  it  occurred 
more  than  forty  years  ago,  I  have,  strangely  enough, 
never  been  able  to  forget  it;  at  the  oddest  times  it  has 
recurred  to  me  as  vividly  as  when  it  happened,  with 
that  same  poignant  remorse.  I  do  not  believe  my 
case  at  all  singular.  All  childhood  commits  petty 
sins  to  which  the  tender  mind  gives  pricking  remorse; 
the  best  men,  even,  have  small  debts  long  ago  in- 
curred, small  trusts  miscarried,  small  dishonest  oc- 
casions, so  to  speak,  that  always,  through  all  the 
years,  cannot  change  their  shape,  but,  in  spite  of  rea- 
son, remain  ever  the  same.  .  .  .  Fifteen  years 
after,  I  sent  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  dollars,  when 
I  could  not  really  afford  it,  to  Miss  Nannie — whom 
I  had  heard  of  as  poor  and  an  invalid — in  remem- 
brance of  her  kindness  to  me  when  a  lad — but  it 
was  returned — Miss  Nannie  had  died  the  week 
before.  The  news  unaccountably  disturbed  me 
for  awhile. 

I  had  alw.iys  been  brought  up  to  a  particularly 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER      321 

strict  observance  of  the  Sabbath  Day,  even  when  it 
was  the  general  rule,  and  the  present  laxities  were 
not  thought  of.  I  became,  at  seventeen,  a  member 
of  the  church.  My  experience  of  religion  was  sincere 
and  deep,  and  in  all  the  following  chances  and 
changes  of  my  life  that  religion  was  my  consolation 
and  my  mainstay.  I  have  been  called  a  hypocrite, 
and  nothing  could  be  farther  from  the  truth  to  my 
own  consciousness.  I  often  erred — who  has  not? 
But  I  could  always  lay  my  sins  at  the  feet  of  my 
Saviour,  and  rise  forgiven.  In  my  more  prosperous 
years  it  was  one  of  my  most  grateful  pleasures  to  give 
liberally  to  the  church  and  to  missions;  from  a  lad, 
I  was  constant  in  my  attendance  at  service,  leading 
often  in  prayer,  and  setting,  as  our  pastor  said,  a 
needed  example  to  other  young  men.  It  was  one 
of  the  crosses  of  my  later  life  that  my  own  son  re- 
mained deaf  to  the  Heavenly  Call. 

I  began  my  business  life  early,  in  a  large  bank  in 
the  city.  A  runner  at  first,  I  was  gradually  pro- 
moted. I  neither  drank,  smoked,  nor  played  cards. 
I  paid  close  and  intelligent  attention  to  my  work. 
I  had  a  cheerful  manner,  an  agreeable  face  (I  am 
told),  and  blue  eyes  that  met  the  gaze  steadily  and 
squarely;  it  is  a  habit  that  has  always  been  mine. 

I  made  many  friends,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
popular  men  in  the  bank.  My  few  private  pecuni- 
ary irregularities  were  entirely  my  own  affair,  and 
the  natural  outcome  of  circumstances.  As  the 
treasurer  of  the  Sunday  School,  for  instance,  I  con- 
sidered that  I  had  a  right  temporarily  to  use  the 


322         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

funds  entrusted  to  me  in  those  instances  in  which 
ready  cash  was  an  object.  Once,  indeed,  a  shortage 
was  accidentally  discovered,  but  I  secretly  raised  the 
money  and  offered  it  as  a  gift  to  make  the  account 
good.  As  it  happened,  another  young  fellow  was 
suspected,  and  my  generosity  much  praised.  I  beg- 
ged that  he  should  not  be  accused,  defending  him, 
and  urging  my  own  greater  care  for  the  future.  He 
found  this  out  in  some  way,  and  never  liked  me  after- 
ward. The  sneering  attitude  he  took  wounded  me, 
and  our  friendship  ceased,  although  as  a  Christian 
I  cherished  no  hard  feelings  toward  him. 

When  I  was  twenty-eight  I  had  been  receiving 
teller  of  the  bank  for  a  year;  and  my  wedding  day 
was  set  to  one  of  the  sweetest  girls  in  the  world. 

II 

FOR  some  months  before  my  marriage  I  had  cau- 
tiously availed  myself  of  the  opportunity  which  my 
position  in  the  bank  gave  for  private  financiering. 

Money  passed  into  my  hands  daily  from  which  I 
soon  saw  that  one  might  easily  borrow  to  further  his 
own  fortunes;  with,  of  course,  the  strict  promise  to 
himself  of  replacing  what  was  taken.  There  were 
ways  of  changing  an  entry — about  which  there  is  no 
need  to  go  into  detail — which  have  been  practised 
successfully  many  times  before  and  since,  and  which, 
if  executed  with  unvarying  care,  reduced  the  chance 
of  detection  to  a  minimum.  Besides,  I  was  a  popular 
and  trusted  employee,  my  honesty  beyond  question. 
I  inaugurated  a  system  of  my  own,  placing  the  sums 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       323 

at  my  disposal  from  time  to  time  with  a  broker  who 
bought  stocks  for  me,  and  who  was  supposed  not  to 
know  that  I  was  in  a  bank. 

Like  many  young  men,  I  had  a  great  deal  of  im- 
agination. The  first  time  I  took  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  from  the  pile  before  me  it  seemed  to  be  en- 
tirely the  result  of  a  natural  sequence.  I  thought : — 
I  will  take  this  chance. — No,  I  will  not. — Yes,  I 
will. — Why  shouldn't  I?  There  seemed  no  reasoning 
power  to  deter  me.  I  felt  the  same  exhilaration  and 
excitement  which  had  possessed  me  when  I  kept 
Miss  Nannie's  ten-dollar  bill,  added  to  a  cool  keenness 
of  intention.  The  next  day  my  broker  bought  for  me ; 
and  with  the  proverbial  luck  of  the  beginner,  my 
stock  rose.  Afterward,  I  kept  on  cautiously  ven- 
turing, with  the  same  success.  I  considered  then, 
as  I  do  now,  that  my  methods  were  not  very  different 
from  those  employed  by  most  business  men.  I  had 
occasional  nights,  indeed,  when  the  panel  in  my  mind 
slid  back,  as  it  had  long  ago,  to  let  those  other,  ac- 
cusing thoughts  pour  forth;  but  morning  brought 
saner  counsel.  I  was  supposed  to  have  inherited  a 
small  sum  from  my  parents — though  the  contrary 
was  the  case — so  that  it  occasioned  no  surprise  when 
in  view  of  my  approaching  marriage  I  bought,  on 
easy  payments,  a  good  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  city. 

But  two  weeks  before  Marian  and  I  were  married 
luck  began  to  go  heavily  against  me;  the  market  took 
a  slump  which  threw  many  into  a  panic  besides  my- 
self; what  I  went  through  was  something  awful. 


324         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Bank  examinations  were  not  so  strict  thirty  odd  years 
ago  as  they  are  now,  and  I  had  always,  warned  by 
some  sixth  sense,  managed  to  cover  my  tracks  be- 
fore the  examiners,  unheralded,  appeared.  But  now 
I  lived  in  daily  fear  that  the  shortage  would  be 
found  out,  and  I  arrested. 

Everyone  laid  my  haggard  appearance  to  the  score 
of  health.  I  had,  indeed,  a  frightful  cold,  and  the 
president  himself,  Mr.  Woodley,  urged  me  to  greater 
care. 

Three  days  before  my  wedding  I  was  obliged  to 
take  a  plunge  which  it  makes  my  hair  stand  on  end 
now  to  think  of.  It  seemed  as  if  every  face  I  saw 
looked  on  me  in  suspicion.  I  took  my  troubles  to 
my  Maker;  I  prayed  as  I  had  never  done  before  that 
this  effort  might  be  successful,  vowing  that  I  would 
never,  never  take  such  a  chance  again.  I  believed 
that  He  would  hear  me  and  help  me — it  was  the 
prayer  of  faith!  And  although  the  venture  did  mer- 
cifully succeed,  every  day  of  the  ten  days  of  our 
wedding  journey,  in  the  midst  of  ray  happiness, 
there  were  horrible  moments  when  I  felt  that  some- 
thing would  be  found  out  in  my  absence,  and  I  broke 
into  a  cold  sweat  with  the  certainty  that  the  iron 
hand  of  the  law  would  be  laid  on  me  as  soon  as  we 
returned. 

I  may  be  blamed  for  marrying  Marian  under  these 
conditions,  with  the  chance  of  dragging  her  in  to 
share  immediate  disgrace;  but,  as  ever  in  such  cases, 
only  one  half  of  my  mind,  that  half  that  was  occu- 
pied with  what  I  strongly  desired,  seemed  to  be  in 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       325 

working  order,  and  I  refused  to  face  any  consequences 
which  I  did  not  have  to.  I  dreaded  nothing  more 
than  to  have  that  sliding  panel  withdrawn. 

When  I  did  come  back  and  found  no  suspicions 
raised  against  me,  I  felt  justified  in  having  taken  the 
risk,  and  my  thanksgiving  to  an  ever-watchful  Provi- 
dence was  deep  and  sincere.  I  fully  intended  to 
give  up  my  private  schemes  for  the  future. 

But  circumstances  were  too  strong  for  me.  There 
were  payments  to  be  made  on  the  house;  my  darling 
son  Ernest  was  born;  Marian  had  a  long  and  expen- 
sive illness;  two  little  girls  succeeded  the  boy;  I 
found  it  more  and  more  expensive  to  support  a 
family.  When  I  gained,  I  couldn't  help  chancing 
further,  and  when  I  lost  I  was  forced  to  venture 
largely  against  my  will.  My  salary  at  that  time  was 
a  beggarly  twenty -five  hundred  a  year. 

But,  as  time  went  on,  the  game  I  was  forced  to 
play  began  to  tell  on  me.  Most  business  men,  par- 
ticularly those  who  seem  to  the  outsider  to  be  on  an 
assured  and  prosperous  basis,  live,  themselves,  in 
an  uncertain  state  from  day  to  day,  always  engaged 
in  half  surmounting  an  endless  chain  of  difficulties 
which  stretch  ahead  to  imperil  the  way  at  every  step. 
For  all  I  worked  so  hard,  the  money  I  gained  never 
seemed  to  be  enough  to  do  any  real  good.  When  I 
was  "flush,"  I  had  to  remember  to  spend  the  money 
cautiously;  it  would  never  do  for  a  bank  clerk  to  be 
prominently  extravagant;  but  as  a  rule,  I  was  always 
getting  out  of  one  hole  into  another. 

Marian  knew  nothing  of  money,  and  little  of  my 


326         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

affairs;  she  never  questioned  me  about  them,  taking 
what  I  gave  her  and  asking  for  more  if  it  was  needed. 
Sometimes  I  had  odd  moments — I  have  spoken  of 
my  contradictory  nature — of  wishing  that  she  would 
question  me  and  insist  on  knowing  just  where  we 
stood,  and  help  me  stem  this  whelming  tide.  She 
had  no  surprise  when  I  authorized  some  large  expen- 
diture after  a  month  of  scarceness — "business"  was 
a  man's  province.  There  was  no  sweeter  woman 
than  Marian,  her  trust  in  me  was  implicit;  every- 
thing that  I  did  was  right  to  her,  and  she  was  par- 
ticularly proud  of  my  honesty  and  religious  upright- 
ness. 

With  my  friends — and  I  had  many  apparently — 
I  was  always  conscious,  down  below  everything,  of 
something  that  separated  me  from  them.  In  my 
most  jovial  moments  there  was  a  never-sleeping 
sense  of  caution.  The  one  exception  to  this  was  my 
enemy  of  old  days,  my  friend  ever  since  our  en- 
counter— Jake  Patton.  I  had  seen  him  but  seldom 
since  our  boyhood — he  had  become  a  partner  in  a 
large  firm  while  I  was  still  an  humble  bank-clerk. 
But  when  we  ran  across  each  other  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  heartiness  of  his  greeting  different  from 
that  which  I  received  from  any  one  else,  and  another 
spirit  in  me  rose  to  meet  it.  His  invariable: 

"Well,  old  fellow,  been  engaged  in  any  fights 
lately?  What  soulless  corporation  are  you  battering 
your  fool  head  against  now?"  Made  me  feel  for  a 
little  while  as  if  I  were  really  brave,  as  if  I  could 
fight  against  the  conditions  and  desires  that  were 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       327 

dragging  me  down.  I  had,  sometimes,  in  his  pres- 
ence, that  unexpected,  almost  overpowering  impulse 
to  confession  which  has  come  over  me  at  the  oddest 
seasons;  the  words: 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  am,  but  I  am  going  to 
tell  you.  I  have  been  taking  money  from  the  bank," 
seemed  as  if  they  would  force  themselves  from  my 
closed  lips.  After  the  danger  was  over,  I  would  be- 
come literally  unnerved,  and  find  myself  with  trem- 
bling lips  and  shaking  limbs  and  a  devout  thankful- 
ness that  I  hadn't  yielded  to  the  weakness.  The 
thought  haunted  me  that  I  might  tell  someone  be- 
fore I  knew  it,  and  find  myself  lodged  in  prison  and 
in  stripes.  Perhaps  if  I  had  seen  more  of  Jake, 
or.  ... 

There  was,  among  the  people  I  knew,  a  certain 
poor  young  priest  with  whom  I  had  been  associated 
some  years  before  in  trying  to  get  a  charity  patient 
into  a  hospital.  I  often  met  him  in  going  through 
certain  streets;  we  exchanged  a  word  of  greeting  as 
we  passed.  I  cannot  describe  him  adequately  or 
his  effect  on  me.  His  bearing,  the  firm,  sweet  lines 
of  his  mouth,  his  glance — in  which  there  was  a 
heavenly  simplicity  and  kindness — affected  me 
strangely.  I  was  not  the  only  one  whom  he  thus 
attracted — little  children  ran  up  to  him  at  his  smile; 
people  who  went  by  turned  back  to  gaze  again  with 
a  surprised,  softened  look.  When  I  found  myself 
nearing  him  a  tremor  seemed  to  run  through  me — 
I  wished,  yet  feared  to  hear  that  gentle  greeting,  to 
feel  those  eyes  fixed  on  me;  I  longed  for  the  moment, 


328         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

unmeasurably,  to  be  something  different  from  what  I 
was — I  felt  a  sudden  unexplainable  horror  of  my- 
self. 

There  came  a  day  when  I  could  not  stand  meeting 
him  any  longer — I  turned  aside.  I  said  to  myself: 

Some  day  I  will  go  to  him  and  talk  to  him And 

then  I  heard  that  he  was  dead.  If  he  had  lived — 
if  I  had  gone  to  him.  .  .  . 

I  went  on  in  that  way  for  nineteen  years.  I  could 
never  take  a  vacation,  the  price  of  safety  was  in 
constant  vigilance.  In  lieu  of  promotion,  my  salary 
had  been  raised  to  three  thousand  dollars. 

Our  children  were  all  that  Marian  and  I  could 
wish;  Ernest,  my  handsome  boy,  was  the  pride  of  my 
heart.  But  for  the  last  few  years  luck,  in  spite  of 
all  my  efforts,  had  gone  against  me.  At  the  end 
of  this  time,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  not  only  owed 
the  bank  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  but  I 
owed  everyone  else,  too.  Marian  had  accounts  every- 
where; I  speculated  more  and  more  heavily,  only  to 
lose  and  lose.  What  I  went  through  in  this  time 
nobody  will  ever  know.  Only  my  religious  convic- 
tions sustained  me. 

Ill 

WHILE  many  banks  had  changed  materially  in 
the  conduct  of  their  affairs,  ours  remained  approxi- 
mately the  same.  I  couldn't  help  wondering  some- 
times both  why  I  was  not  found  out,  and  at  a  sort 
of  laxness  that  seemed  to  be  coming  into  the  manage- 
ment. Mr.  Woodley,  the  president,  was  growing  old; 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       329 

his  hand  shook  as  he  signed  his  name.  His  son-in- 
law,  young  Lessner,  had  been  appointed  cashier  in 
the  place  that  I  should  have  had—  Once  I  had 
a  horrible  scare;  I  fancied  that  Lessner  had  been  set 
to  spy  on  me.  I  fancied  that  he  had  found  out 
something  wrong  in  my  books,  one  afternoon,  when 
I  returned  for  my  keys  and  found  him  still  there. 
His  eye  avoided  mine  when  we  next  met. 

In  all  these  years,  my  religious  life  had  been  my 
mainstay  and  my  inspiration.  I  still  kept  the  Lord's 
Day  with  the  utmost  strictness,  and  obliged  my  fam- 
ily to  do  so  in  spite  of  the  tendencies  of  the  age. 
When  I  discovered  Ernest  once  riding  on  a  bicycle 
on  a  Sabbath  afternoon  I  punished  him  severely  for 
the  only  time  in  his  life.  I  had  perhaps  an  almost 
superstitious  reverence  for  the  command  to  keep 
the  Sabbath  holy;  I  felt  that  I  could  expect  no  help 
during  the  week  if  I  neglected  it,  and  that  the  wrath 
of  the  Lord  descended  on  those  who  did. 

My  joy  was  in  my  church  work;  there,  indeed, 
sinner  that  I  was — and  who  is  not?  I  could  feel  my 
humble  service  of  some  worth.  I  was  superintend- 
ent of  the  Sunday  School,  and  my  Bible  Class  for 
young  men  achieved  prominence.  Young  men, 
indeed,  were  my  especial  care.  I  made  friends  with 
them.,  prayed  with  them  earnestly,  and  talked  to 
them  unceasingly  on  the  temptations  to  which  all 
lads  are  open.  The  duty  of  strict  honesty  was  one 
of  my  most  urgent  themes.  I  can  conscientiously 
say  that  my  heart  was  in  this  work;  it  gave  me  a 
grateful  glow,  it  drugged  that  accusing  part  of  me  to 


330         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

rest.  It  is  strange  that  though  I  made  warm  friends 
among  the  many  boys  I  helped,  I  could  never  seem 
to  reach  my  own  boy  in  this  way — he  remained  aloof. 

I  needed  comfort  sorely,  for  luck  seemed  to  have 
deserted  me  for  good.  I  lived  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipice;  my  nights  were  frightful.  But  although  I 
prayed  now  with  agonized  fervour  and  faith,  my 
prayers  remained  unanswered. 

I  speculated  frantically,  under,  as  I  hoped,  the 
Divine  direction.  I  still  lost.  Each  day  I  said  to 
myself,  "How  long  can  this  thing  last?"  I  became 
terribly  thin  and  worn;  I  started  when  any  one  spoke 
to  me.  I  would  have  given  anything  to  stop  my 
pecuniary  operations,  but  I  couldn't  stop  now. 

One  morning  I  awoke  early  from  a  bad  dream  to 
find  my  wife  regarding  me  strangely. 

"You  say  such  queer  things  in  your  sleep,  lately, 
Ernie,"  she  said. 

^"What  do  I  say?"  I  asked,  fixing  my  eyes  on  her. 
Suddenly  I  felt  that  I  would  get  this  fearful  load  off 
my  mind;  I  would  tell  her  all. 

"Oh,  dreams  are  nothing.  I'm  so  foolish;  forget 
all  about  it,  dear,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

"No,  I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

She  changed  colour.  "Isabel  is  calling  me,"  she 
said  nervously,  and  left  the  room.  When  she  came 
back,  after  some  minutes,  she  made  no  allusion  to 
the  subject;  but  she  did  not  look  herself  for  several 
days.  Once,  after  reading  in  the  newspaper  of  some 
defalcation,  she  put  her  arms  around  my  neck,  with 
her  face  hidden,  and  said: 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER      331 

"Ernie,  if  you  ever  did  anything  wrong,  it  would 
kill  me.  It  is  my  greatest  joy  that  you  are  beyond 
reproach." 

IV 

I  WELL  remember  the  day  when  the  crash  came. 
By  that  time,  what  with  being  pinched  for  money, 
hounded  by  dunning  letters  and  in  constant  danger  of 
detection,  the  fear  that  possessed  me  was  so  terrible 
that  it  was  only  by  those  moments  of  respite  in  which 
nature  mercifully  dulls  the  mind,  airholes  at  which 
the  submerged  comes  up  to  breathe,  that  I  was  able 
to  preserve  my  reason.  I  had  lost  so  much  of  the 
bank's  money  that  only  an  almost  impossible  coup 
could  land  me  in  safety.  Yet  I  still  clung  to  the 
cherished,  desperate  hope  of  it.  I  prayed  hi  agony. 

On  this  fateful  morning,  the  day  after  the  bank 
examiners  had  been  there,  I  had  gone  down  town  for 
the  first  time  in  weeks  with  that  strange,  exaltedly 
sanguine  state  of  mind  that  is  sometimes  more  apt 
than  foreboding  to  come  before  a  great  catastrophe. 
The  bank  examiner  had  left.  I  felt  at  ease,  com- 
forted, sure  that  my  prayer  was  answered,  that  this 
day  extraordinary  good  fortune  was  to  be  mine.  I 
would  be  able  to  restore  before  night  the  funds  that 
I  had  borrowed,  and  begin  to  lead  a  new  life;  I  shed 
tears  of  thankfulness  at  the  blessed  assurance  given 
me  from  on  High.  I  entered  the  bank  with  a  light 
heart. 

As  the  day  went  on,  however,  I  found  a  chill 
slowly  creeping  over  me.  There  was  a  directors' 


332         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

meeting,  unusual  in  itself  on  a  Saturday  after  the 
noon  closing,  and  an  unusually  long  session.  As  I 
stood  over  my  books,  pen  in  hand,  working  after 
hours,  as  often  happened,  with  a  couple  of  other 
clerks,  suddenly  the  knowledge  came  to  me,  ir- 
revocable, certain,  that  I  was  found  out.  I  do  not 
know  how  the  knowledge  forced  itself  on  me,  but  I 
knew  it  to  be  a  fact,  the  result  of  a  sub-consciousness 
Which  could  not  be  defied;  all  else  was  delusion.  I 
watched  the  door  of  the  directors'  room.  Once  it 
opened  suddenly,  someone  came  out,  and  passing 
down  the  aisle,  looked  at  me.  In  that  look  I 
saw.  .  .  . 

I  kept  working  on,  dizzily,  seeing  nothing  in  the 
page  before  me,  waiting  for  the  summons  to  come. 
When  it  did  not,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  coat  and  went 
out. 

/It  was  in  December,  a  few  days  before  Christmas. 
Though  only  four  o'clock,  it  was  already  growing 
dark;  the  streets  were  black  with  mud,  yet  slippery 
with  a  growing  iciness.  Lights  were  hazily  dimmed 
in  an  encroaching  fog.  I  wandered  at  first  aimlessly 
in  a  confusion  of  mind  that  was  in  itself  a  horror — 
after  a  while  I  found  myself  before  the  Central  Sta- 
tion. Yes,  that  was  it — I  must  go  off  at  once,  while 
I  was  yet  free.  Free?  I  felt  in  my  pocket;  I  had 
just  two  dollars  in  the  world;  my  feet  were  already 
bound.  And  my  wife  and  children — how  about 
them? 

It  was  half -past  ten  when  I  finally  reached  home. 
Marian  started  back  when  she  saw  me. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       333 

"Why,  Ernie,"  she  said.  She  put  up  her  hand  as 
if  to  ward  off  a  blow—  We  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other.  When  she  spoke  it  was  with  pale  lips 
to  ask:  "Are  you  ill?" 

"No,  I'm  all  right." 

"Mr.  Patton  is  in  the  library;  he  has  been  waiting 
impatiently  for  you  for  more  than  an  hour." 

"Very  well,"  I  said  shortly,  striding  in  there  at 
once,  with  a  quick  sense  of  respite.  WTe  were  both 
interested  in  a  Christmas  entertainment  for  news- 
boys—  After  all,  everything  seemed  as  before; 
my  imagination  might  have  played  me  false. 

He  was  pacing  the  room  as  I  entered,  but  hitched 
his  chair  close  up  to  mine  after  our  greeting.  I 
realized  suddenly  that  there  was  something  strange 
in  his  manner.  Jake  was  a  big  man  with  a  large 
head,  grizzled  hair  and  direct  eyes.  I  saw  my  own 
figure  reflected  in  the  glass  opposite,  painfully  thin, 
with  bent  shoulders  and  nearly  white  locks,  though 
I  was  barely  fifty. 

He  said:  "Ern,  I  may  as  well  go  straight  to  the 
point.  It  was  discovered  to-day  that  you've  been 
robbing  the  bank  for  years." 

It  had  come  at  last.  "My  God!"  I  said,  and 
crumpled  up  in  my  chair  as  if  the  spoken  words  had 
hit  me  like  a  stone. 

He  averted  his  eyes  for  a  moment  before  going 
on. 

"  Suspicion  was  aroused  a  couple  of  weeks  ago.  The 
cash  was  examined  to-day — part  of  it  as  you  know 
was  deposited  in  a  couple  of  other  banks — and  it 


334         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

was  found  that  it  did  not  tally  with  the  entries  to  an 
enormous  amount.  The  securities  won't  cover  it, 
the  directors  themselves  will  have  to  make  the  loss 
good.  You  will  be  arrested  on  Monday.  Johnson 
told  me  this — he  was  very  much  cut  up.  You  were 
the  least  suspected  man  in  the  place." 

My  lips,  my  hands,  something  in  my  very  soul 
seemed  twisted  out  of  shape.  I  burst  forth  gasp- 
ingly: 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Jake!  I  got  in  wrong  from  the 
first — I've  tried  and  tried  to  pay  back  what  I  took. 
I've  suffered  the  tortures  of  hell!  If  I'd  only  had 
a  little  luck- 
He  stopped  me.  "Excuses  aren't  any  good  now. 
But  I've  not  come  to  score  you,  Hollins — God  knows 
we're  none  of  us  too  honest!  I've  always  liked  you. 
Somehow  it  goes  hard  with  me  to  think  that  we've 
been  boys  together  and  I'll  be  free  while  you're 
clapped  into  prison.  Have  you  got  any  money?" 

"Money!"  I  said,  "Money!"  I  laughed,  with  a 
laugh  that  turned  into  a  shriek.  I  felt  suddenly  be- 
side myself.  I  took  the  loose  change  from  my  pocket 
and  threw  it  on  the  table. 

"Yes,  I've  got  this! — if  I  had  any  money,  do  you 
suppose  I'd  be  here  now,  cornered  like  a  rat  in  a  trap? 
Do  you  think  I  want  to  rot  in  jail?  Do  you 
think- 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Jake  hurriedly.     He  went  on 
and  closed  the  door,  and  then  came  and  bent  over 
me. 
.J'Ern,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  I'm  going  to  help 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       335 

you  get  off  to  Canada."  He  drew  out  of  his  pocket 
a  wad  of  bills  and  thrust  them  into  my  grasp.  "Here's 
five  hundred.  Pack  your  bag,  take  a  cab,  and  catch 
a  midnight  train.  It's  your  only  chance." 

"Jake,  I'll  never  forget  this,"  I  babbled.  "I'll 
never — I'll  never  forget  it—  I  began  to  sob,  the 

relief  was  so  great.  I  rose  and  then  stopped  short, 
struck  by  a  sudden  terrible  thought,  and  then  sank 
back  clutching  the  chair.  I  fell  to  trembling  vio- 
lently, as  I  knew  that  what  had  seemed  this  heaven- 
sent escape  was  inexorably  cut  off  from  me. 

"Oh,  Jake!"  I  moaned,  "I  can't  go.  O  Lord 
have  mercy,  help  me  to  withstand  temptation !  Jake, 
Jake,  I  can't  go ! " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  pull  yourself  together,"  he 
adjured  me,  alarmed.  "What's  the  matter?" 

I  threw  up  my  arms. 

"Don't  you  see?  I  can't  go  to-night;  I'll  have  to 
wait  until  Monday,  even  if  it's  too  late !  To-morrow 
is  Sunday!" 

He  stared  at  me. 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Jake,  I've  never  travelled  on  Sunday  in  my 
life — I  daren't  go  against  my  conscience  now.  The 
Lord  would  never  bless  me  if  I  did." 

"Why,  you  blaspheming  old  hypocrite!"  said 
Jake  incredulously,  with  a  contempt  before  which  I 
shrank.  He  controlled  himself .  "  Here,  I've  offered 
to  get  you  off,  and  I'll  abide  by  it." 

"I  tell  you,  I  can't  go,"  I  persisted  wildly. 

"All  right,  I'll  leave  the  money      Your  rotten 


336         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

conscience  may  let  up  on  you  by  morning.  Good- 
night!" 

He  left  me  feebly  protesting.  Providence  spared 
me  the  necessity  of  further  decision.  An  attack  of 
vertigo,  such  as  I  have  been  subject  to  ever  since, 
laid  me  low  the  next  day. 

On  Monday  morning  early  I  slipped  out  of  the 
house.  I  was  looking  down  the  street  while  I  de- 
scended the  steps;  as  I  reached  the  pavement  someone 
from  behind  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  moment;  my  heart  stood  still  sud- 
denly. A  horrible  cold  tingling  thrill  ran  through 
tne  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  experienced  before. 

I  seemed  to  become  all  at  once  a  criminal — I! 

^Two  men  had  been  waiting  there  to  arrest  me.  I  was 
put  in  a  cab  and  hurried  off 

It  seems  strange  and  almost  unbelievable  that 
what  followed  made  so  little  impression  upon  me. 
I  grew  increasingly  dazed  and  confused — the  scenes 
and  incidents  of  the  day  passed  before  me  like  a 
dream,  which  I  had  imagined  many  times  before 
more  realistically.  Only  the  feeling  of  that  tap  on 
my  shoulder  has  remained — such  a  slight  thing,  over 
in  an  instant — to  haunt  me  with  its  dread  suggestion. 
In  all  the  years  since  there  have  been  times  when  I 
have  felt  it  as  vividly  as  in  that  first  moment;  I 
start  even  now,  in  sudden,  uncontrollable  terror,  if 
any  one  touches  my  arm  unexpectedly.  It  is  the 
little  things  often  that  have  the  most  tenacious 
power  of  torment 

I  was  finally  committed  to  the  prison  where  I  was 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER;     337 

to  await  trial.  I  sent  word  to  my  wife  later,  and 
the  papers  were  full  of  my  delinquency  and  arrest  the 
next  day,  with  my  picture  to  head  a  column. 

You  may  think  it  strange,  but  for  the  first  time  in 
many  years  I  felt  comparative  relief.  I  had  nothing 
to  hide  any  more.  I  sat  there  in  that  prison  cell, 
lethargic,  but  at  peace.  My  wife  was  ill  for  the  two 
weeks  I  was  in  jail  and  could  not  come  to  me,  though 
I  had  several  loving  notes  from  her.  I  sent  her  the 
money  Jake  had  left  with  me. 

I  wondered  painfully  what  effect  my  future  im- 
prisonment would  have  on  my  two  elder  girls,  just 
growing  up,  and  on  my  boy.  But  above  all  things 
I  yearned  to  make  a  full  confession  to  Marian;  to 
cleanse  my  soul  of  all  I  had  been  harbouring  in  it  for 
so  many  years,  to  tell  her  all  I  had  suffered,  to  feel  her 
one  with  me  in  my  better  resolves;  to  make  her 
understand  ...  I  had  been  alone  for  so  many 
years! 

After  all,  she  was  spared  the  worst — I  was  never 
brought  to  trial;  greater  interests  than  mine  were  at 
stake,  with  influence  to  hush  up  the  matter.  It  was 
not  only  my  imagination  that  had  shown  Lessner, 
the  president's  son-in-law,  with  the  same  expression 
as  my  own — he  had  followed  in  my  tracks.  If  the 
president  himself  had  been  honest,  matters  in  the 
state  they  were  could  never  have  run  on  so  long — 
the  whole  edifice  was  corrupt,  as  was  the  edifice  of 
my  boyhood's  home,  though  it  was  only  whispered  by 
those  who  knew.  I  was  let  out  on  bail,  furnished 
secretly  to  the  ostensible  bondsmen.  I  was  forbid- 


338         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

den  to  leave  the  jurisdiction  of  the  city;  I  might  be 
brought  to  trial  at  any  moment. 

When  I  went  home  eagerly  to  Marian,  she  was  con- 
valescent. She  sat  up  in  bed  and  put  her  arm 
around  me,  murmuring  brokenly  as  I  laid  my  wet 
cheek  against  hers : 

"Poor  boy!  What  you  must  have  suffered  under 
all  these  dreadful  suspicions !  It  has  nearly  killed  me. 
But  you  knew  all  the  time  that  your  wife  would 
never  believe  you  were  a  thief I  would  not  be- 
lieve it  even  if  you  confessed  it  yourself.  We  will 
never  speak  of  it  again." 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  what  prop  seemed  to 
have  given  way  under  me.  I  had  never  had  much 
sense  of  humour,  but  I  laughed  more  than  once.  My 
youngest  girl,  Flossy,  came  and  stood  by .  me, 
frightened.  "Why  do  you  laugh  like  that,  Daddy?" 
she  asked. 

I  answered,  "Oh,  you  always  laugh  when  your 
tower  of  blocks  tumbles  down." 

It  was  a  few  days  afterward  that  I  overheard  the 
Doctor  talking  to  the  nurse  in  another  room. 

"  It's  a  pity  his  wife  hasn't  the  courage  to  face  his 
trouble  with  him." 

"He  is  guilty?" 

"Undoubtedly — on  his  own  statement,  I  hear. 
She  can't  help  knowing  it.  But  she'll  never  own  it, 
and  the  poor  devil  will  never  get  the  help  he  needs, 
and  might  profit  by  now;  I  can  see  it  in  his  face. 
Well!  Give  those  powders.  .  .  ." 

It  was  true.    That  rectitude  I  had  looked  upon  as 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       339 

a  bulwark  in  time  of  need  in  my  wife  was  only  another 
form  of  self-love . 

I  must  bring  this  confession  to  a  close.  For  ten 
years  the  sentence  of  the  court  has  hung  over  me. 
If  I  had  been  an  embezzler  of  consequence,  many 
ways  of  making  money  might  still  have  been  open  to 
me;  as  a  discredited  bank  clerk  of  fifty,  there  were 
none,  though  I  tried  everywhere.  We  moved  out  of 
our  house  and  went  to  a  cheap  flat  in  a  poor  part  of 
the  city.  My  wife  took  in  sewing.  One  daughter 
went  to  live  with  a  relative  in  the  country;  the  other 
ran  away  at  seventeen  and  married.  Ernest,  my  boy, 
got  a  position  with  a  broker,  an  old  friend  of  mine. 
We  managed  to  exist.  I  cooked  while  my  wife  ran 
the  machine,  swept,  took  her  work  home,  and  carried 
brown  paper  parcels  from  the  corner  grocery.  I  tried 
to  save  her  all  I  could,  but  I  longed  for  a  man's  work. 

I  was  beginning  to  get  up  courage  again  when  that 
fatal  blow  fell  which  made  an  old  man  of  me.  I 
have  found  that  there  is  no  escaping  the  Law  under 
which  we  all  live;  it  takes  its  awful  toll  of  us  in  one 
way  or  another.  My  bright  boy,  Ernest,  was  dis- 
covered robbing  the  stamp  box,  of  a  small  amount 
indeed,  but  the  fact  remained.  Ernest  was  a  thief! 
My  God — how  that  word  rang  through  me!  A 
thief!  My  erstwhile  friend,  the  broker,  sent  for  me 
and  told  me,  kindly  but  explicitly. 

The  first  word  my  boy  said  to  me  when  I  was  alone 
with  him  was: 

"Don't  tell  Mother." 


340         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

And  I  answered: 

"No,  she  must  never  know." 

He  wept  with  my  arms  around  him.  We  knew 
without  speaking  that  there  could  be  no  help  from 
her.  Yet  she  must  have  suspected  something,  then 
and  since! 

Ernest  got  another  place  and  was  discharged  after 
a  few  months,  for  the  same  reason.  He  drifted  off 
and  it  is  long  since  we  have  heard  from  him. 

Once  the  newsdealer  at  the  corner  hired  me  to 
make  up  his  books  for  him.  I  was  tremulously  eager 
at  the  prospect  of  doing  a  man's  work  once  more. 
I  dressed  myself  carefully,  and  walked  to  the  store 
with  a  firm  step.  But  my  head  would  not  stay  clear. 
I  made  mistake  after  mistake,  the  old  vertigo  at- 
tacked me.  I  went  home  tottering. 

The  consolations  of  religion  even  have  forsaken 
me  lately.  I,  who  used  to  feel  so  sure  of  my  place 
by  the  Throne  of  Grace,  and  in  the  Great  and  Exult- 
ing Company  of  the  Redeemed,  have  no  joy  in  the 
assurance  now;  it  seems  somehow  beside  the  mark. 
I  seldom  go  to  church,  and  when  I  do,  it  is  to  slip  into 
a  back  seat  and  out  again  before  the  perfunctory 
words  of  cordiality  greet  me. 

I  am  always  thinking  of  Ernest,  my  boy  so  far 
away.  In  my  thoughts  I  am  fighting  for  him  as  I 
fought  for  the  little  boy  Jake  was  hurting  so  long  ago. 

As  I  walk  to  and  from  the  corner  grocery  with  my 
paper  parcels  of  butter  and  sugar — living  is  terribly 
high  these  days! — I  find  myself  repeating  over  and 


THE  MAN  WHO  WENT  UNDER       341 

ever  to  myself:  "Lord,  help  my  boy!  I  don't  want 
anything  for  myself  any  more;  only  have  mercy  on 
my  boy.  Keep  him  straight — my  life  is  over,  but 
keep  him  straight.  Don't  visit  my  sins  on  him!" 

I  get  strangely  confused  at  times.  The  other  day 
I  thought  I  saw  my  friend  of  long  ago,  the  young 
priest,  coming  down  the  street  toward  me.  There  was 

something  in  his  kind  eyes But  when  I  looked 

again  he  was  gone. 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE 
PRELUDE 

IT  WAS  in  Milan,  the  day  after  the  wonderful 
operatic  success  of  the  new  singer — that  triumph 
which  has  since  become  so  assured!  and  I  had  sought 
the  interview. 

We  had  but  just  met  that  morning,  and  I  was  leav- 
ing for  New  York  on  the  morrow.  .  .  .  She  lay 
on  the  bed  in  the  high-windowed,  heavily  curtained 
hotel  bedroom,  a  strangely  motionless  little  heap  in  a 
brown  dressing  gown,  with  relaxed  arms  and  hands; 
the  eyes  shining  out  of  her  small,  deeply  worn  face 
revealed,  by  a  startling  contrast  with  her  physical 
exhaustion,  the  eagerness  and  energy  of  an  indomit- 
able spirit. 

The  business  of  the  interview  had  gradually  merged 
into  the  unexpected  meeting  of  two  souls.  ...  I 
found  myself  telling  all  my  desires  and  perplexities  to 
a  comprehension  that  seemed  inimitably  embracing — 
embracing  is  the  word;  it  was  as  if  she  had  her  arms 
around  me,  to  give  me  such  tender  yet  helpful  com- 
fort as  I'd  ne^er  had  before.  Her  sympathy  led  to  my 
involuntary  questions.  She  seemed  something  won- 
derful and  precious  that  I  couldn't  let  go  of  before 
some  further  insight  was  vouchsafed  me,  in  penalty 
else  of  eternal  regret  afterward  for  the  loss. 

342 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  343 

After  she  once  began  to  speak — slowly  and  tenta- 
tively at  first — we  both,  I  think,  lost  count  of 
time.  .  .  . 

it  was  only  a  month  later  that  the  news  of  her 
death  reached  me. 

M.  S.  C. 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE 

NOW  that  the  triumphant  end  has  really  come, 
or  the  beginning — whichever  you  choose  to 
call  it — now  that  my  great  song  has  been 
sung  at  last,  it  does  seem  a  relief  to  speak,  and  to  a 
stranger.  I  couldn't  tell  it  all  to  my  darling  Erla, 
it  would  hurt  her  too  much.  After  all,  we  often 
tell  the  deepest  things  about  us  only  to  strangers, 
because  they  seem  in  a  way  just  disembodied  interest 
and  sympathy;  our  friends  know  us,  and  the  people 
we  are  telling  about,  too  well  to  be  able  to  see  clearly. 
And  it  makes  it  different,  doesn't  it,  meeting  this 
way  in  a  foreign  country? 

You  seem  so  young  and  so  pretty  to  be  earning 
your  living  alone  here;  I  have  always  loved  pretty 
people,  though  even  in  my  best  days  I  have  never 
been  anything  but  a  plain  little  thing  myself.  That 
is  what  I  heard  my  husband  say  about  me  to  a  friend 
of  his  a  couple  of  months  after  we  were  married : 

"She's  a  plain  little  thing;  but  she's  a  dear." 

My  husband  himself  was  a  very  handsome  man — 
perhaps  that  was  really  one  reason  that  I  married 
him.  And  I  knew  I  wasn't  pretty,  but  oh,  I  would 
have  liked  him  to  think  that  I  was ! 

Many  people's  lives,  if  you  may  judge  from  what 
they  say,  seem  to  have  consciously  begun  on  a  grown- 

344 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  345 

up  plane  when  they  reached  a  certain  age,  or  a 
higher  school,  or  were  given  responsibilities  in  the 
world.  Before  that  they  were  just  children,  think- 
ing and  understanding  as  such;  a  period  railed  off  in 
those  ways  from  the  after-part  of  their  existence. 

It  was  different  with  me.  My  life — that  conscious 
life  that  is  a  part  of  me  now — began  when  I  was  a 
very  little  girl;  I  can't  remember  myself  without  it. 
I  led  a  very  ordinary,  normal  existence  on  the  farm, 
but  I  had  always  thoughts  and  feelings,  perceptions 
and  divinations,  that  are  not  expected  of  a  child  and 
that  no  one  suspected  in  me — the  kind  of  thoughts 
and  perceptions  I  have  now. 

I  was  brought  up  to  believe  that  my  father  and 
mother  were  the  source,  under  Providence,  of  all 
wisdom  and  goodness;  but  I  knew  perfectly  well  at 
the  age  of  six  that  my  father  and  mother  were  often 
cross  and  unjust,  and  that  to  be  cross  and  unjust 
was  just  as  bad  in  a  grown  person  as  in  a  child.  And 
although  we  were  a  household  brought  up  in  the 
daily  reading  of  the  Bible — perhaps  for  that  very 
reason,  for  children  who  are  brought  up  on  the  Book 
get  perforce  a  different  outlook  on  life — I  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  we  were  all  encompassed  by  a  great 
mystery,  and  that  if  I  had  the  courage  to  jump  off  the 
cliff  I  would  find  out  something  I  could  never  discover 
if  I  lived  on  top  of  ground  for  a  thousand  years. 

And  at  that  same  age  I  promised  myself  that  if  I 
were  ever  grown  up  and  had  children  of  my  own, 
that  no  matter  how  much  work  I  had  to  do  I  would 
always  look  at  my  little  boys  and  girls  as  if  I  were 


346         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

glad  to  see  them  when  they  ran  into  the  room,  even 
if  they  brought  mud  on  their  shoes;  and  that,  no 
matter  how  tired  I  was,  I  would  never  say  sharply: 
"Go  away,  I  can't  attend  to  you  now,"  when  they 
came  up  to  me  trustingly. 

I'm  not  one  of  those  women  whom  you'd  call  nat- 
urally fond  of  children,  but  I  can  say  that  among 
all  the  things  I  did  or  didn't  do  for  mine  later  on, 
they  never,  at  least,  missed  being  mothered  when  they 
wanted  it.  Many  a  time  when  I've  been  as  tired 
out  as  ever  my  poor  mother  was,  that  effort  toward 
a  child  has  rested  me  anew,  I  got  back  so  much  more 
for  the  little  that  I  gave! — but  that's  a  thing  lots  of 
mothers  don't  know. 

Our  farm  life  was  the  kind  that  you've  always 
heard  about — work  not  only  from  morning  until 
night,  but  almost  from  morning  until  morning.  Long 
after  even  the  last  of  the  hired  men  had  been  fed 
and  the  dishes  washed  and  the  fields  lay  quiet  under 
the  moon,  there  were  always  "critters"  to  be  seen 
to,  chores  done,  fires  kept  up,  and  endless  sewing  on 
my  mother's  part  with  her  worn  and  knotted  fingers 
— the  thousand  and  one  little  ways  of  toil,  beginning 
again  long  before  daylight;  and  there  was  always 
a  sense  of  irritated  depression  in  the  air  in  all  this 
unending  effort  of  the  elders,  because  at  the  best 
there  was  no  money  in  it,  and  at  the  worst  there  was 
a  bottomless  loss. 

Yet  there  was  the  daily  routine  to  keep  things  to- 
gether— existence,  even  with  this  shadow,  wasn't 
aimless.  We  children — there  were  five  of  us — were 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  347 

busy  enough  with  "chores,"  but  we  had  our  school- 
ing; we  were  not  too  hard  worked. 

And  though  I  was  a  plain  little  brown,  round-cheeked, 
freckled-face  child,  I  always  had  a  separate  life  of 
my  own — perhaps  set  in  motion  by  the  daily  Bible 
reading  in  our  household;  the  magnificent  words  in 
it  sometimes  touch  strange  chords  beyond  our  know- 
ing. I  used  to  go  off  by  myself  with  a  doll  or  a  book 
or  a  bit  of  sewing  for  a  pretence — so  clever  children 
are  at  hiding  themselves ! — and  sit  in  the  corner  of  a 
little  wood  down  the  slope  with  a  green  "fairy  ring" 
in  front  of  me.  We  had  an  old  Irish  woman  working 
for  us  once,  and  she  had  told  me  that  round  green 
places  in  the  grass  were  "fairy  rings."  It  was  a  fairy 
ring,  but  God  made  it. 

When  I  stood  there,  it  was  as  if  I  were  miles 
away  from  everyone.  I  sang  to  the  leaves  and 
the  blades  of  grass  and  the  little  white  clouds  far, 
far  above;  I  sang  songs  to  them,  in  words  I  made 
up  myself,  perfectly  disconnected  and  unmeaning, 
yet  that  had  a  strange  and  deep  connection  with 
some  great  and  unknown  power  in  myself — something 
I  didn't  know  how  to  express;  something — I  put  it 
as  I  felt  it  then  childishly — something  that  was  just 
between  me  and  God ;  the  same  God  that  the  children 
of  Israel  talked  to.  It  was  a  comfort  to  feel  that  He 
knew.  It  was  a  joy  to  get  off  by  myself  and  play, 
childlike,  with  the  fanciful,  yet  real,  consciousness  of 
that  power.  People  said  that  I  grew  absent-minded, 
carelessly  indifferent — I  wondered  sometimes  that 
they  couldn't  see  that  I  had  another  world  to  live  in. 


348         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

I  could  always  sing,  even  as  a  baby.  My  parents 
were  proud  of  this,  and  when  I  was  very  little  I 
performed  at  all  the  school  celebrations  and  at  the 
concerts  of  the  Methodist  Church.  One  day  when 
I  was  about  eleven  years  old,  I  heard  a  woman,  a 
boarder  from  the  city,  say  after  one  of  the  school 
performances : 

"That  child  has  a  wonderful  voice.  If  she  is 
trained  she  will  make  a  great  singer." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  words — it  was  like  having  a 
door  opened  into  heaven.  Music  had  always  set 
me  quivering  with  a  sense  of  beauty  that  was  almost 
too  great  to  bear.  After  that  all  my  dreams,  all  my 
talks  to  myself  were  of  singing — in  a  wonderful,  great 
hall,  filled  with  rows  on  rows  of  people,  a  glittering 
crowd,  with  princes  and  princesses  among  them,  and 
in  that  final  intoxication  of  joy,  when  my  voice  should 
soar  and  soar  far  up  above,  carrying  the  souls  of  all 
that  crowd  with  it,  I  would  feel  the  meeting  with 
something  that  was  Divine.  As  I  grew,  the  dream 
grew;  I  filled  it  out  with  details;  I  planned  for  the 
means  toward  it,  no  matter  what  the  difficulties  in 
the  path. 

In  that  strange  way  that  sometimes  happens,  the 
very  difficulties  themselves  seemed  to  make  oppor- 
tunities. My  poor,  hard- worked  mother  died;  when 
I  was  seventeen  my  father  married  again;  before  an- 
other year  was  over  he  sold  the  farm  and  moved  to  the 
far  West.  His  new  wife  did  not  want  me  with  them, 
and  said  so;  I  was  old  enough  to  look  after  myself. 

My  two  brothers  were  already  married,  living  at  a 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  349 

distance  and  struggling  to  make  a  living;  my  older 
sister  had  gone  as  a  missionary  to  Japan.  I  had  not 
known  before  how  to  leave  the  nest;  but  when  I  was 
pushed  out  I  learned  to  fly.  Young  and  inexperi- 
enced as  I  was  I  had  dreamed  to  some  purpose;  I  got 
the  address  of  the  lady  from  New  York  who  had 
praised  my  voice  six  years  before,  and,  by  some  enor- 
mous stroke  of  good  fortune,  found  her. 

No  one  could  ever  have  looked  less  like  a  possi- 
ble great  singer  than  I! — a  little  country  girl  with  a 
round  face  and  a  shabby  black  hat  and  jacket.  But 
Mrs.  Stanford  had  friends  among  great  musicians; 
she  took  me  to  the  greatest  conductor  of  the  day — 
I  have  never  known  any  one  so  much  a  part  of  music 
as  he,  a  man  as  kind  as  he  was  great — and  made  me' 
sing  for  him.  I  was  terribly  afraid  as  I  began,  but  as 
I  went  on  I  came  suddenly  into  my  other  world: 
I  stood  with  my  feet  in  the  fairy  ring,  singing  up  to 
the  blue  sky  above  me,  and  to  the  Power  of  which  I 
was  a  part.  When  I  finished,  the  two  who  were  lis- 
tening said  nothing,  but  the  great  man  held  out  his 
hand  and  shook  my  friend's  hand,  and  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

After  that  my  work  was  cut  out  for  me.  My 
brothers — poor  boys,  they  had  little  enough! — sent 
me  the  tiny  sum  each  week  that  they  could  spare — 
enough  to  pay  for  a  dingy  hall  room  for  me;  my  musi- 
cal education  was  provided  for. 

Life  was  very  different  for  girls  alone  in  town 
thirty -odd  years  ago  from  what  it  is  now.  There 
were  comparatively  very  few  living  that  way,  so 


350         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

few  that  there  was  little  chance  for  one  of  finding 
comrades  easily;  there  was  none  of  the  convention- 
alized Bohemianism  that  obtains  so  largely  at  the 
present  day. 

The  landlady  of  the  boarding  place  which  Mrs. 
Stanford  had  found  was  a  good  soul  who  was 
supposed  to  look  out  for  me — and  did,  as  well  as 
she  could.  I  met  some  women,  mostly  older  than 
I,  at  my  classes,  but  I  was  shy  and  not  attrac- 
tive looking — I  never  became  really  a  city  person,  I 
was  always  just  a  little  country  girl — and  our  inter- 
course never  became  anything  permanent.  And  I 
needed  no  companionship  in  those  days;  I  was 
music-mad,  drunk  with  it,  filled  with  that  sense  of  it 
that  leaves  room  for  nothing  else.  I  lived  gloriously 
in  my  inner  world;  I  practised  interminably;  when 
I  was  not  practising  I  was  studying  the  theory  and 
history  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  my  art.  I  became 
used  to  the  fact  that  when  I  sang  even  those  women 
who  didn't  like  me  became  silent,  and  that  people 
pointed  me  out  when  I  entered  the  conservatory. 

At  the  end  of  three  years  I  had  made  one  of  the 
grand  triumphant  steps  of  my  dreams — I  won  a 
prize,  and  was  sent  to  Paris  to  complete  my  course 
for  grand  opera. 

But  before  that  something  had  happened  to  take 
away  from  that  joy  of  achieving — as  is  so  often,  so 
very  often  the  case,  when  we  have  at  last  attained 
what  we  have  planned  for! — so  that  it  is  the  same 
and  not  yet  the  same. 

I  bad  met  Paul. 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  351 

II 

PAUL  was  from  Vermont;  he  had  come  to  New 
York  about  the  same  time  that  I  had,  but  it  was  only 
the  year  before  I  left  that  he  happened  to  take  a  room 
in  the  same  house  where  I  boarded  and  we  got  ac- 
quainted with  each  other.  He  was  a  small  clerk  in  a 
downtown  wholesale  house.  He  was  an  extremely 
dignified,  a  very  handsome  young  man,  with  dark, 
flashing  eyes,  a  low  white  forehead  under  his  thick  dark 
hair,  and  very  white  teeth. 

He  sang  in  the  chorus  of  a  large  amateur  singing 
society  of  great  vogue  hi  those  days,  and  as  I  sang 
in  it  also  for  practice,  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  escort- 
ing me  to  and  from  the  rehearsals. 

I  think  most  of  the  girls  there  were  ready  to  fall 
in  love  with  him,  on  the  strength  of  his  looks,  but  he 
always  seemed,  at  least,  to  be  quite  unconscious  of 
the  stir  and  flutterings  that  his  presence  caused; 
if  he  noticed  them,  it  was  only  to  increase  a  sort  of 
country-bred  shyness  that  mingled  with  a  country- 
bred  conceit  under  his  dignified  exterior.  He  felt 
uneasily  that  they  expected  attentions  from  him 
that  he  didn't  know  how  to  give.  I  alone  expected 
nothing. 

From  the  first  I  became  his  confidante.  He 
was  very  lonely,  my  poor  Paul !  He  told  me  about 
the  home  and  the  good  food  that  he  missed;  about 
the  small  makeshifts,  laughable  and  otherwise,  that 
his  small  salary  necessitated;  about  his  aspirations 
in  a  business  way  and  the  set-backs  and  jealousies 


352         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

which  he  had  already  encountered.  He  was  morbidly 
afraid  of  criticism.  Did  I  say  that  people  always 
confide  in  me?  My  dear,  I  have  been  the  recipient 
of  more  personal  histories  and  of  more  troubles  than 
I  could  ever  begin  to  sum  up. 

But  from  the  first,  although  I  didn't  realize  it,  I 
think  Paul  fell  in  love  with  me.  What  agitations, 
what  whirling-brained,  sleepless,  yet  not  unhappy 
nights  I  went  through  the  month  before  I  sailed! 
Often  as  he  had  told  me  that  he  loved  me,  I  had 
been  so  bent  on  my  career,  I  was  so  much  a  part  of 
music,  that  I  hadn't  wanted  to  listen  to  the  suggestion 
that  I  was  giving  way  to  anything  else.  And  he 
wouldn't  hold  me  back  from  my  career.  It  was  all 
very  harrowing  and  delicious  and  high-minded  and 
young,  but  he  suffered  more  than  I — far  more! 
.  I  sailed,  and  left  him  standing  on  the  dock  looking 
after  me.  Yet  though  I  cried  so  hard  after  I  had 
seen  the  last  of  him,  something  in  me  was  glad  to 
get  away,  too.  The  strain  had  been  too  much — I 
couldn't  have  stood  it  any  longer.  And  though  Paul 
had  confided  so  much  to  me,  he  had  never  had  any 
of  my  confidences,  because  I  knew  secretly — but  so 
well — that  he  hadn't  wanted  any  of  them.  No  one 
had  ever  cared  to  hear  anything  of  that  inner  life 
of  mine,  and  Paul  was  no  exception. 

When  I  could  touch  the  keys  of  the  piano  and  let 
my  voice  btead  with  them,  there  would  come  at 
strange,  unexpected  moments  that  exulting  sense  of 
being  mysteriously  isolated  with  the  Highest,  and 
part  of  the  Highest,  and  part  of  the  harmony  which 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  353 

I  had  heard  even  as  a  little  child.  ...  I  have 
always  wondered  how  people  live  who  have  no  fairy 
ring  to  stand  in. 

Those  three  years  in  Paris — golden  years !  Home- 
sick as  I  was  at  times  for  Paul  I  was  glad  I  had  them 
— so  glad !  But  for  them  I  would  never  have  known 
in  the  flesh  the  possibilities  of  my  art.  They  were 
immortal  years;  they  filled  me  with  an  insatiate 
flame.  How  I  worked  and  how  I  sang!  I  made  my 
small  body  strong;  I  lived  frugally,  I  bathed,  I  exer- 
cised, I  worked  with  that  absolute  precision  and  ar- 
dour of  routine  which  alone  makes  for  the  highest 
purpose,  the  highest  power. 

There  was  almost  always  a  disappointment  visible 
in  everyone  when  they  first  saw  me — I  was  used  to 
that! — and  then  the  sudden,  swift  attention  when 
I  began  to  sing,  and  the  silence  after  I  had  ended. 
I  was  to  be  the  greatest  singer  yet.  My  masters 
made  only  one  proviso:  I  could  take  no  liberties 
with  my  voice  nor  with  my  strength;  I  had  no  large 
and  naturally  robust  frame  to  fall  back  on.  I  must 
live  within  the  strict  limitations  that  encompassed 
me  now. 

And  all  the  time  I  wrote  every  week  to  Paul,  try- 
ing to  help  and  comfort  and  sympathize,  to  be  every- 
thing I  could.  I  loved  him  dearly  and  carried 
always  with  me  a  sense  of  responsibility  for  his  wel- 
fare. The  month  was  fixed  for  my  appearance  as 
Marguerite  in  Gounod's  "Faust";  I  had  been  kept 
back  strictly  from  the  public,  and  only  rumours  of 
my  wonderful  voice — that's  the  way  they  put  it, 


354         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

as  beautiful  in  its  quality  as  in  its  strength—care- 
fully circulated.  I  tasted  all  the  preliminary  sweets 
of  success  in  the  anxious  excitement  of  the  masters 
and  the  manager  who  was  responsible  for  my 
appearance.  One  can  never  foretell  what  may  make 
for  failure  in  even  the  most  promising  prima-donna; 
no  one  could  foretell  here,  I  least  of  all!  .  .  . 

The  week  before  my  contract  was  signed  I  had  a 
letter  from  my  poor  Paul — a  last,  despairing  appeal 
to  me  to  come  to  him;  he  was  ill,  alone,  he  needed 
me  now.  It  was  a  bitter,  anguished  appeal  from  the 
heart  to  one  slipping  finally  out  of  reach;  a  call  to 
consider  the  things  of  the  heart  before  it  was  too  late 
for  both  of  us.  Couldn't  I  love  and  sing,  too?  And 
what  was  any  song  without  love? 

Well!  I  did  not  sign  the  contract.  I  passed 
through  a  terrible  week  of  storming  fury  on  the  part 
of  those  who  had  built  their  hopes  on  my  career,  and 
had  given  their  work  toward  it — Mrs.  Stanford  tele- 
graphed me  sternly  from  Italy — she  had  a  right  to 
be  angry,  Heaven  knows! 

Many  people  tell  me  how  differently  they  would 
have  lived  their  lives  if  they  had  known  what  they 
know  now;  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  say  that;  I  can't 
assert  that  I  would  have  decided  differently  even  if  I 
had  known — for  I  did  know! — although  apparently 
and  to  myself  I  was  only  abdicating  for  the  moment. 
I  couldn't  think  that  my  career  was  really  given  up 
for  all  time;  it  should  be  taken  up  without  fail  later. 
And  I  was  horribly  worked  up,  emotional,  unbal- 
anced by  excitement  and  Paul's  need  of  me — yet 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  355 

through  all,  away  underneath  everything,  I  think  I 
knew.  And  even  if  I  had  really.  .  .  .  My  life  has 
been  a  succession  of  what  Mrs.  A.  D.  T.  Whitney — 
I  read  her  books  and  loved  them  when  I  was  a  girl — 
calls  "the  next  things."  My  going  to  Paul  came 
imperatively  "next." 

You  know  the  quotation:  "O  Art,  my  Art,  thou'rt 
much,  but  Love  is  more!"  I  don't  think  I  could 
ever  have  said  that;  I  don't  think  the  kind  of  love 
I  felt  at  the  time  was  more.  It  was  simply  that  Paul 
loved  and  needed  me  and  I  was  young  and  a  woman; 
suddenly  I,  who  had  held  out  so  easily,  couldn't  re- 
main stone  to  his  appeal  any  longer;  something  in  me 
responded  whether  I  would  or  not,  something  I  had 
never  reckoned  on;  I  just  went.  If  I  had  stayed 
—well,  who  can  tell?  I  might  have  had  no  more  of 
an  artistic  career  even  then;  I  might  have  taken 
diphtheria  as  one  poor  girl  I  knew  did,  and  died  in  a 
week.  We  never  know  what  our  "next  thing"  may 
be. 

Paul  was  somehow  strangely  older,  strangely 
thinner,  strangely  less  someway  than  I  had  imagined 
him — that  was  my  first  half-sinking,  half-frightened 
impression  before  Love  entered  and  absorbed  the 
field  of  vision. 

Ill 

PEOPLE  have  such  different  ways  of  happiness, 
haven't  they?  Mine  didn't  consist  in  a  daily  con- 
tinuously happy  state,  such  as  one  reads  about  and 
such  as  is  the  experience  of  some  sheltered  souls. 


356         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Most  of  us  have  to  be  satisfied  with  those  single  bril- 
liant flashes  of  happiness  that  leave  a  reflected  glow 
on  the  way  ahead  after  they've  passed  by.  And  for 
that  first  year — well,  I  had  some  of  those  sweetly 
illuminative  flashes,  although  just  after  our  marriage 
Paul  lost  his  position,  and  it  was  a  long,  long  time 
before  he  got  another. 

There  began  soon  after  our  honeymoon  was  over  a 
struggle  that  has  never  ended  until  now;  a  mighty 
struggle  that  always — until  now — seemed  pitifully 
disproportionate  to  the  result. 

We  lived  in  a  little  bit  of  a  two-story  house  in  a 
row  in  a  straggling,  unimportant  suburb.  I  was  ter- 
ribly sorry  for  his  disappointment  in  the  collapse  of 
his  firm  and  the  loss  of  his  position,  and  was  anxious 
to  show  him  how  little  I  minded  the  temporary  stress. 
I  threw  myself  into  the  breach  with  ardour.  I  got  a 
place  to  sing  in  a  church  choir — Paul  had  an  invin- 
cible dislike  to  my  having  anything  to  do  with  the 
stage — and  gave  singing  lessons  at  a  low  price  to  a 
few  pupils  whom  I  managed  to  get  through  the  good 
offices  of  the  organist. 

It  bothered  me  somewhat  that  there  was  a  slight 
huskiness  in  my  voice,  brought  on  by  the  dampness 
of  the  cottage  when  we  first  went  into  it,  and  the 
lapse  of  my  regular  routine.  It  bewildered  me  to 
have  my  own  expensive  musical  education  bring  such 
a  small  return. 

Like  most  girls  brought  up  on  a  farm,  I  had  never 
been  trained  to  cook  properly  or  do  housework  well. 
I  had  done  only  "chores,"  odd  jobs  that  led  to  no 


357 

further  accomplishment  in  the  same  line.  I  could 
bring  the  flour  and  set  out  the  pie  board,  but  I 
couldn't  make  the  bread  or  pie.  Then  in  the  six  years 
of  my  musical  education  I  had  done  nothing  what- 
ever  in  this  line.  I  kept  house,  therefore,  very  badly 
at  first,  with  an  immense  amount  of  misdirected 
exertion;  but  I  learned. 

Paul  was  always  sweet  and  good-natured  over  my 
mistakes;  he  ate  burnt  food  cheerfully,  and  went  with- 
out mV  coffee  uncomplainingly  if  I  forgot  to  order  it; 
his  deprivations  didn't  worry  him,  but  neither  did  it 
distress  him  in  the  least  that  I  was  also  obliged  to  eat 
burnt  food  and  go  without  coffee  after  my  unavailing 
toil. 

There  are  some  things  that  give  me  a  strange  and 
awful  wonder  when  I  think  of  them — things  I  could 
not  bear  to  own  to  myself  without  that  strained 
wringing  of  the  heart;  it's  only  because  you  are  a 
stranger  that  I  am  speaking  now — for  the  first  time. 
My  husband  was  sweet  and  kind  and  unfailingly 
gentle,  unfailingly  loving,  but  it  never,  then  or  after- 
ward, seemed  to  distress  him  that  it  was  I  who  bore 
the  burden  of  the  household  as  well  as  of  our  main- 
tenance. Home  was  naturally  the  place  for  a 
woman. 

Once  a  man  he  had  invited  to  the  house  was  amazed 
to  find  that  I  was  a  girl  he  had  known  at  the  Con- 
servatory in  Paris;  he  said:  "Fow,  here!'*  as  one 
might  speak  to  a  queen  who  had  given  up  her  throne. 
Paul  never  seemed  to  realize  that  I  had  given  up  any- 
thing. He  took  it  as  simply  that  I  should  like  to 


358         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

work  for  him  as  that  he  would  have  liked  to  work  for 
me;  that  was  fine,  in  a  way;  but  in  the  years  that 
followed  there  were  three  consecutively  in  which  he 
could  get  no  regular  position  whatever,  and,  except 
for  a  few  odd  jobs  at  bookkeeping,  contributed  noth- 
ing to  our  subsistence. 

He  was  always  willing  enough  to  work — or  he  was 
at  first — but  he  didn't  know  how  to  ask  for  it;  he  sat 
around  home  most  of  the  day  and  read  the  papers  or 
played  with  the  children.  Then  for  two  years  he  was 
ill  and  helpless,  and  though  he  got  about  again  he 
never  really  recovered  his  strength.  Although  I 
didn't  realize  it  then,  I  think  now  that  he  had  never 
been  strong  and  that  this  accounted  for  his  seeming 
lack  of  initiative. 

I  gave  more  lessons  than  ever;  I  was  fortunate  in 
getting  pupils.  I  not  only  did  the  cooking  and  the 
housework,  but  I  shovelled  the  snow  and  tended 
the  furnace  and  planted  and  hoed  our  tiny  garden, 
and  I  had  three  children  who  lived  and  buried  two 
when  they  were  tiny  babies. 

I  say  that  I  gave  lessons  at  home,  charging  more 
for  them  than  before,  but  I  no  longer  sang  in  the 
choir.  My  voice,  my  real  voice,  was  gone — you 
don't  have  to  have  a  real  voice  to  teach  singing! 
After  Pauline's  birth  I  got  up  too  soon  and  caught 
cold  in  some  way.  Well,  it  did  something  to  my  vo- 
cal cords — a  sort  of  partial  paralysis.  It  was  well 
that  I  had  no  time  to  realize  it. 

There  was  another  thing  that  made  life  harder  at 
first — I  wasn't  naturally  a  mother.  I  have  found 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  359 

many  women  since  with  the  same  experience  as  mine 
in  that  regard,  but  I  thought  I  must  be  a  monster. 
Those  days  and  nights  when  I  held  Pauline  in  my  too- 
tired,  aching  young  arms — she  was  a  delicate,  crying 
little  thing — I  used  to  wonder,  like  many  another 
young  mother  before  and  since,  if  this  was  the  rap- 
ture people  wrote  about  and  pictured.  It  was  even 
strange  and  agonizing  not  to  be  able  to  be  comfort- 
able and  happy  unless  that  unresponsive,  irresponsi- 
ble little  mite  were  happy  and  comfortable  also,  to 
feel  my  soul  wrung  with  solicitude  for  her  whether 
I  was  giving  a  lesson,  or  whether  I  had  her  in  my 
arms;  never  to  have  her  off  my  weary  mind,  day  or 
night. 

But  after  a  time  this  acute  stage  passed;  I  loved 
my  little  girl — some  of  those  flashes  of  happiness 
came  to  me  with  her. 

A  woman  I  know  who  isn't  married  says  that 
women  who  do  not  naturally  love  children  often 
make  the  best  mothers,  because  they  don't  take  them 
easily  as  just  children,  to  be  played  with  and  caressed, 
but  because  of  their  own  conscious  limitations 
make  a  real  effort  to  understand  and  provide  for 
them  as  little  human  beings.  Perhaps  in  a  way  she 
was  right;  at  any  rate,  that  was  the  way  I  considered 
mine.  I  did  really  try  to  make  them  happy,  those 
sweet  little  guests  in  my  home  who  had  come  there 
without  their  asking.  I  tried  never  to  take  advan- 
tage of  them  because  they  were  children;  I  never 
asked  them  to  do  things  because  I  didn't  want  to  do 
the  things  myself.  I  remembered  the  promise  of 


360        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

my  own  early  days,  and  when  they  came  to  me  for 
bread  I  tried  never  to  give  them  a  stone.  I  tried; 
one  can  never  know  if  one  has  succeeded;  children 
are  such  deep,  deep  mysteries,  it  is  hard  to  know 
what  goes  on  in  their  minds;  they  see  with  such  an 
awful,  instinctive  clearness. 

Jack  was  born  a  little  more  than  a  year  after  Pauline, 
and  there  were  two  babies  to  take  care  of  before  I 
had  learned  how  to  look  after  one.  Then  those 
other  times — but  I  can't  speak  of  them.  The  worst 
of  it  was,  perhaps,  that  even  in  the  midst  of  my  grief 
it  seemed  despairingly  best  that  those  two  little  new- 
born souls  should  escape  at  once  from  such  a  hard- 
pressed  life.  I  did  not  see  how  I  could  possibly  tend 
them,  or  keep  them  from  harm. 

But  one  thing  I  must  stop  and  say  right  here:  All 
this  sounds  a  sordid,  wretched  recital,  as  if  I,  who 
had  the  chief  part  in  this  domestic  drama,  were  soaked 
in  a  sort  of  hopeless  misery.  My  dear,  we  live  our 
own  lives  so  gradually,  from  day  to  day  ...  do  you 
know,  I  never  once  thought  this  was  the  way  my 
life  was  being  lived;  these  were  only  temporary 
phases  and  situations  of  grinding  stress.  My  voice, 
even,  was  only  gone  temporarily.  I  never,  even  to 
myself,  in  my  darkest  moments,  thought:  "This  is 
all;  it  is  all  I  am  ever  going  to  have."  Always  I  knew 
that  there  was  more !  Why,  I  should  have  died  out- 
right if  I  had  thought  the  other! 

That  feeling  of  something  very  great  that  was 
mine  to  express  some  day  came  to  me  at  moments, 
bringing  that  exquisite  uplifting,  inexpressibly 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  361 

dear;  a  very  little  thing  could  bring  it  to  me,  as 
when  I  struck  certain  chords  on  the  piano  and 
dreamed  into  them,  singing  softly  in  harmony, 
or  when  I  saw  the  harmony  of  a  rosy  cloud  float- 
ing across  the  blue  sky,  or  the  sunlight  sparkling 
across  ice-clad  branches  or  shining  through  the 
first  spring  budding  of  the  yellow-flowered  bush 
in  our  yard.  There  was  a  something  in  me  beyond 
and  apart  from  my  life  as  a  wife  or  a  mother  or  a 
wage-earner — something  that  was  as  truly  I,  yet 
which  nobody  knew! — something,  as  I  felt  when  a 
child,  between  me — and  God.  Always,  hi  the  old 
childish  speech,  there  were  times  still  when  I  could 
stand  with  my  feet  in  the  fairy  ring. 

And  then — what  strange  ways  God  has  of  making 
real  mothers  of  us! — and  then — Erla  came. 

Never  had  I  so  nearly  lost  my  place  in  the  fairy 
ring  as  in  those  months  before  she  was  born.  Never 
had  I  felt  so  passionately  protesting.  It  was  the 
impossible  thing  to  happen  at  that  particular  time. 
My  poor  Paul  had  fallen  ill  again  before  she  came; 
I  had  everything  I  could  do,  and  far  far  more.  I 
had  moments  of  actual  frenzy,  amounting  almost 
to  madness. 

It  happens  so  often  to  us  stupid,  stupid  mortals 
that  that  against  which  we  protest  beforehand  the 
most  vehemently  turns  out  to  be  one  of  our  greatest 
blessings.  Like  many  another  woman,  the  child 
whose  coming  was  the  most  intensely  repudiated 
was  the  one  who  afterward  brought  me  the  most 
exquisite  pleasure.  In  a  sense  I  loved  no  one  of  my 


362         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

children  more  than  another;  in  illness  my  anxiety 
was  the  same  for  each,  my  care  for  health  and  hap- 
piness always  as  unremitting.  Both  Pauline  and 
Jack  had  been  nervous,  delicate  babies,  ever  more  of 
a  care  than  a  refreshment,  their  small,  precious 
existences  always  haunting  me  with  a  dread  fear. 
But  Erla  from  the  first  was  different;  she  was  such  a 
healthy,  happy  little  thing,  she  would  lie  in  her  crib 
for  hours  at  a  time  as  good  as  gold,  when  I  was  busy; 
whenever  she  saw  my  face  she  smiled. 

From  a  tiny  little  thing  her  love  for  me  was  different 
from  that  which  the  other  two  showed;  if  I  were 
out  late  she  feared  that  "something  might  happen 
to  mamma";  she  had  strange  little  endearing,  voice- 
less ways  of  showing  care  and  sympathy  for  me. 
Erla,  by  some  divine  intuition,  always  knew  what 
mamma  wanted — it  was  so  strange  to  have  any  one 
look  out  for  me,  to  have  any  one  see  when  I  was  tired. 
It  was  Erla  who  brought  me  my  slippers  when  I  came 
in  from  giving  a  lesson,  and  tried  to  unbutton  my 
shoes. 

When  Erla,  with  those  baby-angel  eyes  of  hers 
resting  on  my  worn  face,  climbed  up  into  my  lap 
and  patted  my  cheeks  with  her  soft  hands,  saying: 
' '  Dear,  pretty  Mamma !  Mamma  is  so  beau-ty-f ul ! '  * 
she  brought  an  exquisite  wonder  and  refreshment 
to  my  heart.  I  have  never  been  beautiful  to  any 
one  but  Erla. 

Isn't  it  strange,  no  matter  how  great,  or  fortunate, 
or  miserable  a  woman  is,  to  be  beautiful  to  someone 
makes  such  a  difference!  We  want  that  so  much- 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  363 

WhenErla  stroked  my  cheek  it  was  as  if  I  had  touched 
the  most  exquisite  chord  on  the  piano  and  my  voice 
had  carried  it  up  to  heaven. 

She  was  only  a  year  and  a  half  old  when  her  father 
died;  he  loved  his  children,  he  was  as  gentle  with  them 
as  with  everybody — with  me  most  of  all.  I  am  thank- 
ful that  in  those  last  years,  at  least,  I  tried  to  lay  no 
burdens  on  him — I  don't  think  I  did.  Mine  were 
the  shoulders  to  bear  them;  whether  it  was  right  or 
wrong  that  the  part  was  mine  instead  of  his  was  mer- 
cifully settled  for  me  by  his  illness — then  it  was  right. 
It  is  terrible  to  have  to  see  that  those  we  love  are  in 
the  wrong;  no  matter  how  wrong  we  know  ourselves 
to  be  in  many  things,  we  want  them  to  be  perfect. 

When  Paul  died,  something  went  out  of  my  life  with 
his  spirit  and  his  unfailing  gentleness — youth,  per- 
haps you  might  call  it,  for  want  of  a  better  name. 
He  and  I  had  been  young  together.  I  found  myself 
going  back  in  my  mind,  past  all  that  had  happened 
since,  to  those  first  years  when  we  had  been  young 
together.  I  was  gladder  than  I  had  ever  been  before 
that  I  had  come  back  from  Paris  to  him.  The 
children  were  his  as  well  as  mine — and  I  had  Erla! 

No  one,  except  those  who  have  experienced  it, 
knows  how  strange  it  is  to  have  one's  husband  taken 
away — it  seems  always  the  kind  of  thing  that  can- 
not happen,  it  leaves  one  lost  in  the  world,  with  no 
accredited  place.  There  is  no  one  else  with  whom 
one  has  any  right  to  be  first. 

People  were  very  kind  to  me  in  those  early  days  of 
my  bereavement.  My  brothers,  whom  I  had  not 


364         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

seen  for  years,  came  to  the  funeral;  they  were  changed 
almost  into  strangers,  grown  apart  from  me,  yet  for 
that  moment  of  grief,  oddly  my  brothers  still. 

Death  is  a  concrete  thing,  it  is  a  tangible  and  ac- 
credited reason  for  sorrow.  Sorrow  that  comes 
from  God  brings  its  own  comfort;  it  is  not  like  those 
terrible,  self-brought  seasons  of  mental  incapacity 
and  depression  in  which  the  will  becomes  flaccid 
— seasons  in  which  one  is  ready  to  snatch  at  a 
straw  to  save  oneself  from  drowning,  only  that  on 
those  occasions  there  is  never  even  a  straw  to  catch 
at. 

When  one  cries  out  for  help  in  one's  weakness,  no 
one  wants  to  help  at  all — at  least  I've  always  found  it 
so!  It  is  only  when  one  is  inwardly  strong  that 
others  stretch  out  their  hands  to  help  us  along. 
Spiritual  weakness  antagonizes — people  fear  it,  it 
is  such  an  ugly  thing.  We  have  to  try  and  raise  our- 
selves to  the  plane  above  to  come  into  communica- 
tion with  our  kind.  My  God!  How  hard  we  have 
to  try  sometimes !  Even  our  daily  repeated  strength- 
ening catch-words  wear  themselves  out  in  course  of 
time;  we  have  to  seek  others  to  pump  up  the  power 
of  living  into  us. 

There  were  always  those  chords  on  the  piano 
that  I  could  strike  that  might  bring  the  sense  of 
power  back  into  me — and  for  every  time  in  which 
I  struggled  out  of  the  slough  of  despondency,  I 
reached  a  still  higher  ground;  I  had  visions.  Oh, 
my  fairy  ring  was  still  there,  that  feeling  of  that  inner 
self  in  me  leaped  toward  the  light  more  exultingly 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  365 

than  ever;  tliat  desire  for  expression — the  need,  yes, 
the  power  of  it — was  mine,  in  a  greater  degree  than 
ever.  I  thanked  God  for  the  unfulfilled  joy  of  it; 
in  those  moments  I  knew,  without  questioning,  that 
some  day  my  voice  would  come  back. 

IV 

IT  WAS  no  new  thing  for  me  to  have  to  support  the 
family.  When  I  look  back  it  seems  impossible  that  I 
could  have  done  so  much  and  in  such  different  kinds 
of  ways — if  it  were  not  that  so  many  of  us  do  im- 
possible things.  My  musical  training,  my  life  of 
routine,  had  at  any  rate  given  me  the  power  and  the 
habit  of  concentration.  But  the  anguish  of  all  the 
working  lately  had  been  to  have  to  take  the  time  for 
it  from  an  invalid  who  needed  me.  I  was  free  to 
work  as  hard  as  I  wanted  to  now. 

I  not  only  had  classes  in  the  house;  I  went  to 
other  places,  other  towns,  even.  I  was  lucky  at 
getting  and  keeping  pupils.  Pauline  and  Jack  and 
Erla  helped  in  the  house  in  little  ways,  as  they  had 
for  some  time,  but  they  had  to  be  educated. 

You  don't  need  to  be  told  about  those  years,  sweet 
years  in  spite  of  everything.  And — I  can't  exactly 
explain  it — but  much  that  had  hurt  hi  my  married 
life  faded  away  for  ever,  and  left  only  the  sense  of 
love;  what  was  good  and  sweet  in  Paul  stayed  by  me. 
I  realized,  too,  that  I  might  have  helped  him  differ- 
ently. You  see  God  has  always  given  me  the  power 
to  enjoy,  if  I  was  only  strong  enough  to  stand  up  and 
hold  the  gift! 


366         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

Erla,  though  the  youngest,  was  the  little  mother 
of  the  family;  she  was  Jack's  companion,  her  quick 
perception  went  ahead  of  Pauline's  slower  wit;  she 
took  care  of  me  always.  She  had  her  father's 
beauty,  his  thick,  curling  dark  hair,  and  his  clear 
complexion;  she  grew  up  very  tall.  But  though 
both  Jack  and  Pauline  had  sweet  voices,  Erla  never 
would  sing;  apart  from  that  she  was  the  most  sen- 
sitive to  music  of  them  all. 

We  think  our  children  belong  to  us. — When  my 
pretty,  delicate,  flower-like  Pauline  was  eighteen, 
she  married  a  man  more  than  forty  who  was  here 
on  a  visit  from  Denver.  It  was  one  of  those  blows — 
it  came  upon  me  like  a  blow — that  are  out  of  all  ex- 
pectancy. Yes,  he  was  well  off  ...  Pauline 
was  made  to  be  guarded.  Yes,  he  loved  her — she 
has  always  been  happy,  I  think.  I  have  seen  her 
just  six  times  in  twelve  years.  You  might  think  it 
strange  that  when  she  was  rich  I  should  still  keep  on 
working  hard  .  .  .  she  was  so  young  when  she 
married,  she  was  only  used  to  taking  things,  child-fash- 
ion, from  mother,  not  giving.  It  is  I,  since,  who  have 
kept  on  sending  her  the  little  love-presents — trifles 
that  I  make  myself,  pretty  collars  and  ties  that  can't 
be  bought  where  she  is.  At  Christinas  and  on  my 
birthday  Pauline  and  her  husband  send  me  a  hand- 
some present — a  silken  down  quilt  or  a  fur  cloak. 
Pauline  always  says: 

"I  do  hope  if  you  want  for  anything  at  any  time, 
Mother,  that  you'll  let  me  know." 

Want  for  anything !     And  Pauline  has  come  on  here 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  367 

to  buy  Chippendale  furniture  and  thousand-dollar 
curtains  for  her  house  in  Denver,  and  has  seen  the 
way  I  live!  No,  I  am  wrong,  she  doesn't  see;  she 
has  the  eyes  of  a  child  still,  to  whom  mother  and 
mother's  house  are  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world, 
complete  as  they  are.  It  is  my  fault,  I  should  have 
taught  her  better.  Erla  was  the  only  one  of  my 
children  who  ever  saw — but  that  is  no  credit  to  me; 
it  was  a  divine  quality  in  herself  that  I  couldn't  take 
away.  So  much  that  we  lack  afterward  in  our 
children,  it  is  a  strange,  self-stabbing  sort  of  comfort 
to  think  must  be  our  own  fault. 

Jack,  my  poor  Jack,  never  had  any  business  sense; 
I  haven't  either,  for  that  matter,  I  can  only  work! 
Jack  wanted  to  leave  the  position  in  which  he  was 
getting  a  few  dollars  a  week  to  go  away  as  a  mission- 
ary. I  suppose  it  was  a  higher  aspiration  than  just 
helping  me.  I  have  never  looked  forward  to  a  time 
when  my  children  would  take  care  of  me,  as  many 
parents  do,  it  seemed  as  if  I  must  always  provide 
for  them;  yet  this  gave  me  a  strange  sort  of  shock. 

I  told  you  that  I  had  a  sister  who  was  a  missionary 
in  Japan;  well,  she  managed  it  that  Jack  went  out 
there  as  a  lay -helper;  she  had  been  writing  to  him  for 
some  time.  I  believe  he  has  done  much  good ;  they 
say  people  love  him — my  little  Jack!  He  sends  me 
enthusiastic  letters,  occupied  entirely  with  what  he 
is  doing.  .  .  .  There's  a  sort  of  excitement  in 
working  for  people  when  you're  not  obliged  to  do  it. 
So  I  was  left  alone  with  Erla. 

I've  skipped  the  greatest  part  of  it  all,  you  see. 


368         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

One  day,  when  Erla  was  about  fifteen,  I  heard  her 
sing. 


I  REMEMBER  it  all  so  vividly !  She  thought  I  was 
out  of  the  house,  but  I  had  come  in  again  without  her 
knowing.  Late  one  February  afternoon  I  sat  in  my 
bedroom  with  its  shabby,  ragged  rugs,  its  mean, 
yellow-painted  furniture,  knitting  a  pair  of  gray 
mittens  for  Jack — he  was  driving  a  grocery  wagon  at 
the  time. 

I  was  unusually  tired  that  afternoon.  Jack's 
minor  position  in  the  business  world  always  necessi- 
tated an  excruciatingly  early  breakfast,  and  this  had 
been  my  morning  to  get  up;  Erla  insisted  on  seeing 
to  it  on  other  days,  though  I  did  not  want  her  to. 
My  lovely  child  was  growing  too  fast  and  studying 
too  late  at  night  for  the  high  school ;  she  was  fitting 
herself  to  be  a  teacher. 

I  had  taught  all  day  in  town,  with  but  a  brief  inter- 
val for  lunch,  and  with  the  information  that  two  of 
my  best  pupils  were  to  leave  unexpectedly.  It  is 
singular  how  one  may  have  all  the  outward  mani- 
festations of  success,  with  the  knowledge  of  the 
same  old  ache  and  anxiety,  and  the  same  old  grinding 
strain  to  bear.  I  still  had  pupils,  but  I  had  begun 
lately  not  to  get  so  much  for  teaching  as  I  used.  My 
methods  had  grown  old-fashioned,  I  had  no  time  to 
keep  up  with  the  newer  music;  it  took  more  to  live, 
and  there  was  always  something  unforeseen  to  drag 
back  just  as  one  began  to  get  ahead, 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  369 

The  furnishings  of  my  bedroom  had  never  been 
replenished  since  my  marriage;  they  had  an  inde- 
scribably sordid  look.  I  sat  by  the  window;  op- 
posite was  a  row  of  mean,  contracted,  shabby  white 
houses,  the  front  yards  sodden,  but  just  above 
was  a  patch  of  blue,  blue  sky  with  white  clouds  around 
it.  Anything  very  beautiful  could  always  set  my 
feet,  momentarily  at  least,  in  the  fairy  ring.  I  have 
often  wondered  why  most  people — in  cities,  at  any 
rate — look  at  the  sky  so  little,  or  seem  to  get  so 
little  pleasure  from  the  sight.  And  at  that  mo- 
ment I  heard  someone  in  the  room  below  singing — 
that  voice! — I  sat  up  straight  and  said:  "God  in 
heaven,  what  is  that?'9 

I  slid  out  of  my  room  and  down  the  stairs  noise- 
lessly, and  through  the  open  doorway  of  our  little 
parlour  I  saw  my  Erla.  She  was  singing  from  an  old 
English  book  of  songs,  open  on  the  piano:  "Phyllis 
has  such  charming  graces."  You  know  it,  perhaps. 
She  stood  there  in  her  short  plaid  frock  with  her  back 
to  me,  her  head  held  high,  the  thick  braid  of  her  dark 
hair  falling  below  her  knees,  and  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her. 

That  golden  voice!  Whether  low  or  swelling  high, 
so  round,  so  full,  with  such  a  divine  quality — even  in 
the  light  shades  and  trills  of  the  song,  still  round  and 
full — but  you  have  heard  it!  Nothing  could  ever 
add  to  the  quality  of  it — she  has  learned  confidence 
— she  was  so  timid  at  first  that  she  couldn't  sing 
a  note  if  she  knew  any  one  was  listening;  she  has 
learned  many  things,  but  nothing  has  ever  added  to 


370        SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

i 

M 

I  that  wonderful  quality.  It  was  a  voice  that  came 
straight  from  the  highest.  Once  in  centuries  there 
is  a  voice  like  that. 

I  crept  upstairs  again  and  fell  to  weeping;  I  wept 
in  torrents.  Oh,  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  how  I 
felt.  It  was  like  dying  and  being  resurrected,  the 
same  and  yet  not  the  same,  and  not  being  used  to  the 
strange  new  body.  I  realized,  as  never,  never  before, 
what  I  had  lost!  I  seemed  to  be  equally  torn  for 
myself  and  for  the  child  who  had  the  Gift.  And  I 
made  a  vow  then 

When  Erla  came  upstairs  and  sa"w  me  face  down- 
ward on  the  bed,  she  flung  herself  down  beside  me, 
holding  me  tight  in  her  young  arms,  with  her  cheek 
pressed  against  mine. 

"Why  do  you  cry,  Mother?"  she  whispered  piti- 
fully. "Why  do  you  cry?  I  didn't  want  you 
to  hear  me  sing,  I  thought  you  were  out."  And 
then:  "Oh,  Mother,  you'll  get  your  own  voice  back 
some  day,  I  know  you  will;  I've  prayed  for  it  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  bit  of  a  girl." 

My  little  Erla!  But  even  to  her  I  couldn't  speak 
of  that. 

That  night  we  talked  it  all  out  together.  It  was 
only  within  a  year  that  she  had  found  her  voice;  but 
always — so  strange  it  is  that  we  may  live  so  close  to  a 
child,  and  never  know  the  child's  inner  heart! — since 
she  was  very  little  she  had  sung  all  the  songs  she 
heard  me  teaching,  "in  her  mind" — it  was  the  only 
way  she  could  explain  it,  but  it  must  have  been  to 
her  something  like  practising  with  one's  fingers  on  a 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  371 

clavier  which  makes  no  sound.  She  couldn't  get 
courage  to  make  the  sounds  with  her  voice,  she  was 
so  afraid  someone  would  hear  it;  she  had  an  agonizing 
shyness  about  being  heard;  but  after  awhile  she  had 
sung  whenever  she  was  alone.  When  one  is  timid 
about  playing  on  any  instrument,  the  consciousness 
may  affect  the  execution,  but  the  instrument  remains 
the  same.  With  the  voice  it  is  different;  it  is  itself 
the  instrument  to  be  affected,  to  lose  its  tone,  its 
power  with  anything  that  affects  the  singer.  When 
I  sang  I  forgot  myself  entirely,  whatever  voice  I  had 
could  be  counted  on  without  fail,  but  with  Erla  it 
was  always  the  opposite. 

Well,  the  plan  of  her  studying  to  be  a  teacher  :n 
the  public  school  was  abandoned  at  once,  though 
she  fought  against  giving  up;  in  a  few  more  years 
she  might  be  earning  forty  dollars  a  month,  and  she 
had  so  longed  to  be  a  help  to  me!  The  very  idea  of 
singing  in  public  terrified  her.  "In  half  a  dozen 
years  you  may  be  earning  four  thousand  a  month, 
or  even  a  week, "  I  toid  her. 

My  dear,  I  found  that  times  were  different  than 
when  I  was  a  girl;  there  were  so  few  American-born 
singers  then  that  one  with  a  real  voice  had  some 
prominence.  I  was  a  rarity;  Mrs.  Stanford  and  my 
dear  Master  felt  that  in  me  they  had  a  concealed 
treasure.  But  there  are  far  too  few  patrons  now  for 
the  hundreds  of  girls  with  voices  to  exploit;  there 
was  nobody  to  make  Erla's  way  for  her  but  me. 

When  Pauline  came  on  from  her  home  she  was  in- 
terested, as  much  as  the  child  could  be,  in  something 


372         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

that  wasn't  her  own  child-life — and  she  gave  Erla 
twenty -five  dollars  for  her  birthday  to  help  on  with 
the  lessons;  the  lessons  cost  me  eighty  dollars  a 
quarter.  Pauline  was  proud  of  Erla,  but  she  didn't 
understand.  It  was  natural  that  mother  should 
look  after  her  girlies.  You  may  think  it  foolish,  as 
well  as  strange,  that  I  never  asked  Pauline  for  a 
penny  in  all  those  years,  either  toward  Erla's  musi- 
cal education  or  for  my  living.  I  think  maybe  I 
have  been  unjust  to  Pauline  in  not  asking,  in  de- 
frauding her  of  the  giving — but  I  couldn't — I  was 
too  proud.  Everything  was  there  for  her  to  see  if 
she  would  have  seen  it — and  if  she  didn't.  .  .  . 

It  is  hard  for  many  people  to  see  that  others  may 
be  in  need  if  they  themselves  are  not.  It  was,  after 
all,  my  fault;  I  was  too  proud  to  do  what  would  have 
been  really  best  for  her,  even  if  it  hurt  me.  I  some- 
times get  at  least  that  stabbing  comfort  of  knowing 
that  it  was  partly  my  own  fault. 

VI 

IT  WAS  strangely  like  and  yet  unlike  my  old  life 
over  again,  those  years  when  Erla  was  learning  to 
sing.  But  she  was  in  no  boarding  house  alone;  she 
was  with  me,  her  mother.  She  went  to  town  every 
day  for  her  lessons  and  practising;  I  didn't  pretend  to 
teach  her.  But  every  night  she  came  home  to  me, 
except  those  nights  when  I  met  her  in  town  and  took 
her  to  the  opera,  and  we  came  out  together,  past 
midnight,  to  our  house  and  bed. 

I  sometimes  caught  sight  of  our  two  selves  in  a  big 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  373 

mirror  in  the  foyer,  as  we  walked  through — Erla,  tall 
and  beautiful,  with  her  long  dark  hair  wound  around 
her  lovely  head,  her  long  throat,  her  young  swelling 
figure  in  her  tight-fitting  dark  blue  "tailor"  suit — 
that  I'd  cut  and  sewed  with  my  own  fingers — and 
I,  the  plain,  thin  little  woman  in  the  black  skirt  and 
jacket.  I  heard  someone  speak  of  me  once  as  "that 
little  middle-aged  woman  with  the  young  eyes." 

It  gave  me  a  curious  feeling  as  if  I'd  been  found 
out.  I  knew,  that  in  myself,  in  spite  of  love  and 
birth  and  death,  and  care  and  sorrow,  and  grinding 
work  for  all  these  years,  I  knew  that  in  myself  I  was 
as  young  as  that  look  in  my  eyes,  as  eager  for  expres- 
sion as  ever,  as  eager  to  live  my  own  life  as  I  dreamed 
it.  Even  if  you're  a  mother,  it's  strange  how  much 
you  keep  on  being  your  own  self  still. 

We  women,  we  talk  all  our  days — we  talk  too 
much!  We  are  always  trying  to  say  something,  to 
get  at  something;  there  is  so  much  in  us  that  we  never 
can  express,  we  wonder  what  use  it  is,  and  why  the 
desire  is  given  us. 

Those  years  when  Erla  and  I  were  alone  together 
we  both  worked  tensely  at  our  different  tasks.  She 
was  not  actively  demonstrative,  but  she  had  all  the 
little  ways  of  love  and  understanding;  she  pulled  the 
blind  down  to  shade  my  eyes  before  I  realized  that 
the  sun  was  shining  in;  she  walked  to  and  from  the 
train  when  she  was  in  town  so  that  she  might  save 
her  carfare  to  buy  me  a  little  package  of  chocolates, 
or  a  flower;  she  wouldn't  get  a  new  hat  for  herself 
until  I  could  buy  one,  too;  and  when  she  dressed  or 


374         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

undressed,  I  had  to  go  and  stay  in  the  room  with  her 
so  that  we  might  have  those  precious  minutes  at 
least  in  which  to  talk  over  all  that  had  happened 
since  we  had  talked  last.  She  told  me  every  word 
of  praise  her  masters  gave  her  religiously;  she 
knew  that  that  was  what  my  soul  lived  on.  Erla  had 
all  the  little  ways  of  love  that  feed  the  heart. 

It  distressed  her  that  I  had  still  to  be  the  wage- 
earner;  I  had  to  keep  her  purpose  inflexibly  before  her 
or  she  would  have  given  up  the  future  many  times 
for  the  present  need.  For  the  rest,  we  pinched  and 
saved  in  every  way  we  could.  I  trained  her  in  the 
routine  that  had  been  mine  in  Paris,  and  let  no  house- 
hold duties  interfere  with  it,  that  she  might  have  the 
highest  measure  of  health  and  strength  with  which 
to  back  up  her  voice. 

Her  greatest  stumbling  block  was  her  constitutional 
shyness.  To  get  confidence,  and  the  ease  and  repose 
that  come  from  it,  was  the  thing  she  had  to  strive 
most  for.  There  is  always  something  to  stand  in  the 
way;  with  me  it  was  always  my  plainness,  my  in- 
significance, my  utter  lack  of  any  presence.  Erla  had 
presence;  but  it  was  a  question  whether  she  would 
ever  be  able  really  to  sing  alone  in  public — that  is, 
sing  as  she  could.  Many  voices  have  gone  to  pieces 
under  that  strain  before  now — they  haven't  been  able 
to  fulfil  the  heavenly  promise  they  gave;  we  have  all 
known  that.  And  afterward,  when  they  sing,  the 
voice  isn't  there  the  same  as  before  the  failure;  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  be  in  it  goes  after  it  has  been 
smirched  by  the  powers  of  Fear  and  of  Weakness. 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  375 

So  that  was  our  only  uneasiness.  If  after  all  this 
tremendous  uphill  effort  there  was  to  be  another 
failure,  though  of  a  different  kind,  at  the  end  of  it  — 
if  Erla  was  to  suffer  as  I  had  done  -  !  I  think  no 
matter  what  I  was  doing  I  was  invariably  praying, 
praying,  praying  in  all  kinds  of  ways;  as  the  hum- 
blest, most  needy,  most  undeserving  of  sinners,  and 
then  again  with  the  confident,  proud  claiming  of 
one's  intention  with  that  of  the  Highest;  praying, 
as  I  said,  in  all  kinds  of  ways,  as  if  by  chance  to  catch 
His  attention  by  one  method  if  not  by  another  —  to 
catch  the  Omnipotent  cooperation  that  alone  makes 
our  striving  competent.  One  cannot  be  daily  in 
communication  with  a  great  force  without  acquiring 
power  oneself.  From  that  inner  intensity  I  gained 
an  outer  calm,  a  sureness,  a  repose.  There  was  a 
life  at  stake,  and  7  must  not  falter. 


WHEN  it  was  ultimately  arranged,  after  long  con- 
sideration and  preparation,  that  Erla  should  go 
abroad  to  Vienna  to  study,  with  a  couple  of  other 
young  women,  she  wept  and  implored  me  piteously 
to  go  with  her;  she  couldn't  bear  to  leave  me  behind. 
It  was  a  terribly  hard  thing  to  send  her  away  so  far, 
but  I  had  to  stay  home  and  earn  the  money.  I 
could  see  no  way  of  earning  it  over  there. 

In  those  last  four  years  I  had  saved  a  little;  I  bor- 
rowed the  rest  —  enough  to  take  Erla  over,  and  to 
begin  on  —  from  the  grocer  in  our  suburb,  now  grown 
to  a  large  place,  whose  children  I  once  taught,  and 


376         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

one  of  whom  had  since  died.  Among  all  the  people 
I  have  known  in  musical  circles,  or  of  social  promi- 
nence, I  have  never  met  one  who  seemed  to  realize 
that  I  ever  needed  any  special  help,  even  when  we 
went  through  our  most  crucial  seasons  of  poverty, 
except  this  one  man.  I  think  I  had  a  quiet  manner 
that  seemed  self-sufficient;  I  never  talked  of  my  own 
affairs.  But  Mr.  Dalton  once,  when  it  had  been 
difficult  for  me  to  pay  his  bill,  had  come  forward  and 
in  the  plain  matter-of-fact  way  which  shows  the  most 
delicate  kindness,  had  suggested  that  everyone  in 
the  business  world  was  apt  to  get  into  difficulties 
once  in  awhile,  and  that  if  I  needed  money  at  any 
time  he  would  be  glad  to  lend  it  to  me — if  he  had  it — 
with  no  security  but  my  word.  I  had  never  taken 
advantage  of  his  offer  until  now,  but  the  mere  fact 
of  his  kindness  and  faith  in  me  had  been  indescriba- 
bly heartening. 

I  was  glad,  for  one  reason,  to  have  Erla  go,  because 
I  had  to  work  so  much  harder  than  I  had  let  her 
know,  and  it  began  to  be  more  and  more  difficult  to 
keep  things  from  her. 

You  know  how  conditions  that  seem  to  be  per- 
manent change.  After  my  pupils  had  gradually 
melted  away,  I  had  lectured  on  music  in  a  couple  of 
schools,  and  I  held  the  post  of  secretary  to  a  musical 
society.  I  had  picked  up  typewriting,  and  that 
helped.  If  you  once  get  in  the  way  of  earning  a 
living,  there  is  always  something  you  can  find  to 
do — you  get  used  to  burrowing  through  any  narrow 
tunnel,  mole-like,  forcing  a  further  opening  as  you 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  377 

proceed.  In  spite  of  doubts  and  hesitancies,  and 
obstacles  and  impossibilities,  and  the  almost  constant 
feeling  of  failure,  I  have  always  managed  to  keep  on. 

Before  Erla  left  I  knew — though  she  did  not — that 
one  of  those  periods  of  wholesale  change  had  begun; 
the  musical  society  was  about  to  disband;  one  school 
gave  up  the  musical  lectures  and  the  other  engaged 
a  man  for  the  next  season  in  my  place.  I  tried  for 
nothing  more  of  the  kind.  When  Erla  left  I  took 
lodgers;  I  cooked,  swept,  scrubbed;  I  took  in  plain 
sewing  and  fine  washing;  I  made  cake  and  salad  dress- 
ing for  exchanges,  and  in  odd  moments  knitted  baby 
socks.  Many  a  night  I  have  worked  until  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning  that  Erla's  cheques  might  go  to  her 
regularly,  and  I  hardly  felt  whether  it  was  dawn  or 
dark. 

And  I  had  in  that  time  some  of  my  most  exquisite 
flashes  of  happiness;  it  was  almost  as  if  I  had  a  pre- 
monition of  what  was  to  happen.  I  had  always  been 
fond  of  beautiful  things,  but  I  took  a  fresh  joy  in 
sunsets,  in  the  shimmering  of  lights  across  the  snow,  in 
the  swaying  of  green  leaves,  and  white  clouds  in  a  blue 
sky — things  that  come  in  the  way  of  everyone — full 
of  a  beauty  that  raises  the  strain  of  courage  in  one's 
heart.  I  couldn't  listen  to  music  any  more — it  tore 
at  something  in  me. 

I  had  never  been  much  of  a  reader,  but  I  took  to 
reading  a  couple  of  books  over  and  over.  One  of 
them  was  "Walden,"  by  Thoreau — that  was  almost 
like  being  out  under  the  sky;  and  one  was  "Kid- 
napped," by  Stevenson;  I  suppose  you  know  it. 


378         SOME  OF  US  ARE  MARRIED 

You  may  think  it  was  an  odd  kind  of  a  book  for  me  to 
like !  But  the  people  in  it  were  always  brave — simply 
brave,  through  all  discouragements,  as  if  it  were  the 
only  thing  to  be.  I  seemed  to  get  a  new  means  of  life 
out  of  it  all.  Some  of  my  youth  with  Paul  seemed 
to  have  come  back  again.  My  brothers  wrote  to  me, 
briefly  and  awkwardly,  yet  as  brothers  still.  There 
was  a  sweetness  in  the  relationship. 

I  had  my  children's  letters — dear  letters  from  my 
dear  children,  Pauline  and  Jack — full  of  all  that  they 
were  doing.  Pauline  had  no  children,  but  her  hus- 
band was  very  good  to  her;  bless  him  for  that!  She 
was  a  happy  child  herself.  Sometimes  I  had  the  joy 
of  sending  tiny  cheques  to  Jack.  And  I  had  my 
letters  from  Erla,  not  only  filled  with  what  she  was 
doing,  but  with  thought  for  me.  She  was  succeed- 
ing— though  not  quite  sure  enough  of  herself  yet. 
Sometimes  she  couldn't  help  being  afraid  that  after 
all But  I  never  wavered  in  my  thought  of  her. 

Those  months,  those  years — they  flew;  but  when 
the  time  drew  near  for  her  first  appearance  in  grand 
opera  in  Milan — when  the  date  was  really  set — all 
of  a  sudden,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  found  1 
could  work  no  longer.  Almost  as  swiftly  as  I  am 
telling  about  it  I  arranged  to  leave  the  house  with 
another  woman,  and  go  over  myself,  without  letting 
Erla  know.  I  spare  you  the  details.  I  hadn't  meant 
to  do  it,  but  I  had  to  go — it  was  as  if  I  were  "called.'* 
Yes,  and  I  was  called! 

I  didn't  even  tell  Erla  when  I  arrived;  the  ship  was 
late  and  I  reached  Milan  only  the  last  evening,  a  cou- 


THE  SONG  OF  COURAGE  379 

pie  of  hours  before  the  performance.  I  had  cabled 
for  a  seat  in  the  front  row  in  the  opera  house  the  day 
I  sailed.  It  was  as  if  I  were  on  fire ! 

You  saw  Erla  last  night  and  the  crowded,  glittering 
house,  the  King  and  Queen  in  the  royal  box.  It  was 
a  triumph  when  she  first  came  forward  on  the  stage, 
and  her  loveliness  seemed  to  make  an  atmosphere 
around  her;  why,  she  was  so  beautiful  that  the 
audience  applauded  involuntarily,  didn't  they?  They 
were  kind  and  encouraging  when  she  began  to  sing. 
But  she  was  frightened,  you  could  see  her  tremble — 
her  voice  trembled,  too.  Erla  couldn't  sing  off  the 
note  if  she  tried,  but  her  voice  trembled — it  wasn't 
sure. 

I  suffered  in  those  moments — that  next  half  hour. 
...  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  how  I  suffered ! 
What  availed  all  my  life,  all  thy  love,  all  my  struggles, 
all  my  prayers  if  I  couldn't  help  her  now?  To  be  a 
mother,  and  not  to  be  able  to  help!  It  is  criminal 
not  to  know  how  to  help  one's  children  in  their  need ! 

I  had  feared  that  my  presence  might  distract  Erla, 
unnerve  her,  make  her  conscious,  if  she  saw  me.  But 
now  I  wrote  a  little  note  on  a  slip  of  paper  torn  from 
my  play  bill  and  got  an  usher  to  take  it  for  me  to 
Erla.  He  was  going  to  refuse,  but  he  took  it  when 
I  said  I  was  her  mother.  I  told  her  where  to  look  for 
me. 

And  when  she  came  on  again — you  were  there — 
you  heard  her,  but  you  didn't  see  her  eyes  leap  to 
mine,  you  didn't  know  that  in  all  that  glittering, 
gorgeous  house  she  was  singing  for  a  little  brown  old 


380 

woman  with  wrinkled  face  and  knotted  hands,  wrap- 
ped in  a  white  silk  cloak.  .  .  .  She  sang — her 
voice  uncertain  still  at  first — then  gaining,  gaining  in 
strength,  in  tone,  in  volume,  in  some  heavenly,  un- 
speakable quality — God  in  heaven!  You  only  heard 
her,  but  it  was  I  who  sang!  She  and  I  knew.  From 
that  first  moment  my  voice  had  leapt  to  meet  and 
blend  with  hers,  to  sustain  it,  to  carry  it  up,  up,  up  to 
the  Gates  Above,  in  ecstasy.  My  lips  did  not  move, 
but  it  was  my  voice  that  carried.  ...  I  stood 
with  my  feet  in  the  fairy  ring  at  last,  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  that  fullness  of  created  power.  I  stood 
in  the  fairy  ring  at  last,  with  my  voice  going  up  to 
God! 

THE   END 


THE  COUNTKY  LIFE  PRESS,    GARDEN  CITY,  NEW    YOBK 


I/  I/I 


A     000038122     8 


